Eight Days, Eight Months
by Namaste
Summary: The story of House and Stacy's original breakup, told through one day glimpses from the months between his return home postinfarction to her departure. NOW COMPLETE
1. August

Author's note: Yes, I know we just got rid of Stacy, but they dropped enough hints about their relationship and original break-up that I got to thinking. This fic wil cover eight chapters, with each chapter showing a day in each month from House's return home post-infarction to the time Stacy leaves.

Thanks as always to Auditrix for the Beta.

EIGHT DAYS, EIGHT MONTHS

AUGUST

The sun was already up when House woke, a steady light breaking past the heavy curtains that still covered the windows.

His head, though, remained wrapped in a thick, medicated blanket that surrounded him as he lay there. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again the light had changed, become even brighter.

He wondered if the fog would lift if he slept longer, but he could hear Stacy outside the bedroom, down the hall somewhere and instead he rubbed his eyes to get them to focus.

House turned his head to catch the time on the alarm clock, surprised to see it was well past 10 a.m.

"You're finally awake." Stacy's voice came from the doorway on the other side of the room and House rolled his head toward her, following her progress around the end of the bed and to his side where she sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. "James said you'd be out for hours. I guess he knows his sedatives."

"His patients also don't live long enough to complain about the side effects," House said. "I feel like my head's been stuffed and mounted."

"He said it'll wear off, and you needed the sleep."

House didn't argue the point. After weeks spent in either the hospital or the rehab clinic, he'd been looking forward to coming home. Sleeping in his own bed. Sleeping through the night and waking to familiar settings, rather than the squeak of rubber soles and wheelchair tires on linoleum floors or the clatter of the breakfast cart.

But nothing at home felt right either. He and Stacy had switched sides on the bed so now she was on his left, less likely to accidentally bump into his right leg during the night, and everything seemed out of place -- the room itself aligning itself in the wrong shapes and at the wrong angle. The clock was on the wrong side, the bedside lamp cast the wrong shadows.

Even Stacy seemed off center. She had been on edge since he first arrived at the hospital, and it only got worse after his surgery, which really shouldn't have been hard to define. But he kept thinking that somehow, sometime things would feel right again with her, but she'd sweep into his rooms wherever he was and this sense of "wrongness" that he hadn't been able to name seemed to follow in her wake.

Now that he was home, she kept finding ways to keep herself busy somewhere away from him. Stacy had always enjoyed cooking the occasional major meal, but now she was spending hours in the kitchen every day -- preparing, then cooking, then cleaning -- when they had always split the chores in the past. His first night home, she had made his favorite seafood fettuccine dish, the second night home she made her mother's moussaka recipe. Yesterday, when he told her he wasn't hungry and asked her to take a break and come sit with him on the couch, she lectured him about how he needed to eat more, then began talking about how his mother had sent her the recipe for her beef stroganoff and headed into the kitchen.

The one time he had attempted to carry his own plate to the sink she had taken it from his hand and insisted he looked tired and should go rest.

And she had taken up smoking again -- had been since they moved him into rehab -- though she wouldn't have admitted to it if he asked. From the time they had met she had raged against smoking with all the missionary zeal of an ex-smoker. Now she had taken to sneaking outside to light up, returning with mints on her breath and smoke clinging to her hair.

She seemed to measure every word carefully when they spoke. Sometimes House knew he was on the verge of saying something that would upset her, send her back out for another clandestine cigarette. Sometimes he stopped himself just before he said it. Sometimes he didn't care whether he blurted it out. Sometimes he said it knowing exactly what her reaction would be.

He had hoped that once he was home, once he was back in his own bed, in his own world, that things might slip back into normality. That she would relax. That he could just let go. Instead, he lay awake at night, his mind racing, sleeping only in fits and starts, trying not to move, not to set off either his own leg or Stacy, who would look at him with concern and pity evident on her face.

Four days after his return home, he was still waiting for it to feel like home again.

When Stacy asked Wilson about sleeping pills, House had agreed to try one, both for her sake and his own, though he'd always hated the thick cotton-filled morning-after feeling he'd had whenever he had been given them before.

"How are you feeling this morning, other than the taxidermy effect?" Stacy gently caressed his forehead and cheek. House thought he picked up a faint familiar smell from her skin. It wasn't smoke, but his brain didn't click into gear fast enough to place it before she pulled her hand away again.

"I'm all right," he said.

House pushed himself up into a seated position, Stacy adjusting the pillows behind him. He couldn't stop himself from reacting as the pain from his leg cut through the fog. Just before he closed his eyes, he saw Stacy give a sympathetic wince.

He kept his eyes closed for a moment and leaned back, waiting for his head to adjust. When he opened them again, Stacy had turned to the night stand and was opening the amber plastic pill bottles.

"Ready for your morning meds?"

"I can get those myself," House said. "That's the advantage to having them right there."

"I know." Stacy held out a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other. "But I'm here, and I don't mind."

House waited for a moment, considering whether he could make her put them down and let him handle it on his own, but decided he didn't have the energy to fight her just now and took the water and pills. He stared at them in the palm of his hand -- the orange Coumadin tablet and the larger white Vicodin. He debated whether he could go without the Vicodin this morning, but decided he didn't feel like fighting his leg either and swallowed both down with a gulp of water.

Stacy took the glass back from him and placed it on the night stand. She leaned in for a kiss, lingering for just a moment before pulling away, but caressed his face again with her right hand. "I'll start some more coffee," she said. "You feel up to breakfast?"

House shrugged.

"Is that a yes shrug or a no shrug?" Her hand dropped down onto his chest and he could feel the warmth from her skin through his t-shirt.

"Yes," he said. "Just don't go to too much bother."

"Well it's Sunday morning," Stacy said. "How about I splurge and toss some frozen waffles into the toaster oven? I even picked up some of that god-awful sugary crap you prefer over real maple syrup."

"That crap has more substance than that thin watery so-called natural slime you prefer," House said.

"It also has a list of ingredients I can't even begin to pronounce."

"Chemicals are our friends." It was an old argument, but one that felt more natural than any conversation they'd had in days.

"You feel up to eating in the kitchen or do you want me to put it on a tray and bring it in here?" House leaned against the pillows again. Back to the invalid theme then.

He shook his head and pushed himself back upright again. "Kitchen," he said. "I need to get up anyway."

Stacy stood and he pulled back the covers. She waited just to his left side as he used his hands to swing his right leg to the ground, looking like she barely could stop herself from reaching over to help.

It was further down to the floor than when House had gone to the hospital. Wilson had come in before his return home and raised the modern Asian-influenced bed up with blocks under the legs so it'd be easier for him to get up and down. Yet another change that had been waiting for him when he finally made it home.

House took a few deep breaths once both feet were on the floor and shook his head to try and clear away the fog again. He saw Stacy start to reach around him for the crutches leaning against the wall, tucked into the space between the bed and night stand.

"I've got them," he said and reached out to grab them. "I'm good."

"You sure?" House nodded and she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.

"Maybe you should shave today," she said. "It might feel good."

House could feel the pieces of the puzzle snap into place. "Oh crap," he said and looked up at Stacy. "When is she getting here?"

"She?"

"The only time you ever bug me to shave is when your mother's coming," House said. "And I can smell the jewelry cleaner on your hands. The only time you feel a need to clean and wear that crucifix is when you're mother is here for a visit."

"I wear it more often than that," she protested.

"Not that often. A good 80 percent of the time it's when you expect to see her. Now, when is she coming?"

Stacy opened her mouth once or twice and shook her head, but then rolled her eyes up and off to the left. "This afternoon."

"Haven't I been through enough lately?"

"Greg, she's my mother," Stacy protested. "She's been ... worried about you."

"So tell her I'm not up to visitors." House pushed himself up and onto the crutches, settling himself on the foam pads under his arms and beneath his hands. He caught his balance before turning to look at Stacy.

"That's what I said the first two times I told her not to come. Now that you're home, she wouldn't buy it a third time."

"Why not? Spice it up a little. Tell her I've had a relapse. Tell her it's mutated into an airborne variant and she could catch it herself."

"She's coming," Stacy said and walked across the room. "Deal with it."

"Why should I?" House asked and Stacy stopped at the doorway, turning back to face him. "She hates me anyway, so why should I have to put up with her?"

"Because I have to," Stacy said. "And we're a package deal." She crossed back over to him and kissed him on the cheek again. "Now stop whining and go get cleaned up."

House watched her walk back out of the room. "I'm not shaving," he called out.

Stacy leaned back into the door. "If you do, I'll invite James to join us and even let you two move the Playstation into the bedroom so you can ... get your rest ... while Mom and I talk."

Then she was gone again. House could hear her footsteps moving down the hallway. "Blackmail is illegal, you know," he yelled. "I even know a good lawyer. I bet she'll take my case!"

"No she won't!"

------------

House heard the knock at the door at a little after 2 o'clock. He had the Times spread across the couch cushions to his left, the magazine section open across his lap and his leg propped up on the coffee table.

He could heard Stacy moving aside pots and pans in the kitchen, the radio playing some public radio Celtic music program. He looked up, expecting to see her walk through the kitchen door and across the living room.

She didn't show and the knock came again. He put the magazine on top of the pile of the rest of the sections

"Honey, can you get that?" Stacy's voice came from the far side of the kitchen, somewhere near the pantry. "My hands are ..." She stopped in mid sentence and he heard her set down something heavy.

He had moved his leg to the floor and was reaching for his crutches when she rushed into the room, drying her hands on a towel. "Sorry," she said. "I ..." and stopped herself in mid sentence again.

"I could have gotten it," House said. "You just had to give me a minute."

"Can we not fight about this just now? I can't deal with both you and my Mom right now."

"I wasn't fighting," House said, but she waved her hand at him trying to cut him off. Instead he settled back down and set the crutches back down on the floor.

He heard her let out a sigh. "You're early," she said, sounding more relieved than he would have expected. "Thank God."

"I thought I'd drop by and see if you needed any help," Wilson's voice came from the far side of the room and House looked up to see him, feeling himself let go of some tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding onto.

"Don't believe him," House said. "He's just too cheap to buy his own damn newspaper, so he comes over to sponge off of us."

"I seem to recall something about a pot, a kettle and the color black," Wilson said. "You should check it out."

"Sounds like a really dull story," House said. "Hardly worth the effort."

House moved his leg back up onto the coffee table and leaned back into the couch cushions again.

"James, can you give me a hand?" Stacy called to him from the kitchen entrance. "I need you to get the good dishes down from the top shelf in the pantry."

"Sure thing."

House opened the magazine again. He tried to concentrate on the article, but he could hear the murmur of both Wilson's and Stacy's voices coming from the kitchen. He could make out the general flow of the conversation -- what Wilson had done that morning, what Stacy was making for dinner -- then the volume dropped to just over a whisper. Great. So now he was the topic. Again.

When Wilson walked back into the living room, he headed straight for the TV, leaning down over the back to look at the wires and connections . "Should I unhook the system or do we want to just roll the whole thing into the bedroom?"

"Oh, what, I have a choice in something about my life now? I have options?"

Wilson stood up again, put his hands on his hips. "Only if you tell me which you'd prefer, otherwise you'll just have to live with whatever I do." He shook his head and bent back over the TV. "Now stop bitching and make a decision."

House sighed and set the paper aside again. "Just grab the system." He put his leg on the floor again and reached for the crutches. "The TV in the bedroom isn't as good, but this way we'll only have to deal with one set of wires."

House stood and watched as Wilson turned the TV at an angle so he could reach behind to the mixture of color-coded cables.

"Look for the red, white and yellow ones," House said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I've got it."

Wilson had crouched down beside the set, leaning forward to grab the right cables. House knew he could have grabbed the whole set of wires within 30 seconds -- or at least he used to be able to do the fast switch before, whenever Stacy demanded peace and quiet in the living room. Now? He turned his back on Wilson and headed down the hallway to the bedroom.

House was standing at the end of the bed when Wilson carried the mix of Playstation, controllers and cables into the bedroom. He dropped slowly onto the mattress while Wilson placed the equipment on top of the television.

"You'll need to use the switcher box on this TV," House directed from his seat. "Not enough auxiliary inputs."

Wilson nodded and sorted through the cables again.

"Stacy says you slept pretty good last night," he said as he reached around the back of the box.

"Slept like a baby," House said. "Or at least a baby that's been drugged into a coma. I'm still shaking cobwebs out of my head." Wilson looked up at him and House looked away toward the window. "Thanks," he said softly and turned back, but Wilson was looking back down at his work.

"You should be careful not to use it all the time," Wilson said. "It can be pretty habit forming."

"You know, I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but it turns out I'm a doctor too."

"Sorry," Wilson said and stepped back k to sit next to House. "I guess giving out warnings is habit-forming too."

"Why don't you fire it up," House said, nodding at the TV and game system. "We can make sure it's all working."

"There's time for that later," Wilson said. "When's Anna supposed to be here?"

"Soon." House leaned back onto his elbows. "Care to place any money on how long it takes her to express some fault in my behavior?"

"She's not coming to rag on you," Wilson said. "She wants to see how you're doing."

"I'll lay even odds that she'll start by pointing out how hard Stacy's working to try and take care of me, and that I should learn to do more so Stacy can get back to her real job."

Wilson just looked over at House. "What kind of money are we talking?"

"Twenty bucks if it's in the first twenty minutes," House offered. "Plus an extra ten if it's in the first ten minutes."

"Done." Wilson held out his hand and House leaned over to shake it. "This will be an easy twenty bucks. She's not some evil villain, House."

"Hah," House muttered. "I heard Disney based Cruella DeVil on her. This is going to be an easy thirty bucks for me."

They both sat up as someone knocked on the front door.

"James?" Stacy called out from the kitchen. "Could you get the door for me? My hands are full."

Anna and Wilson were walking slowly away from the door, in mid-conversation by the time House made it into the living room.

"...pleasant surprise," she was saying. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"You know me. Any excuse to get some of Stacy's cooking," Wilson nodded toward House. "Greg was just complaining that I've been sponging off of them."

"Not a complaint," House said. "Just an observation." He stood in the middle of the floor, hunched down on the crutches. "Hello, Anna. Have a nice drive?"

"The construction was awful," she said. "All those people heading back from the shore, and the road down to only one lane. But that doesn't matter." She walked up to him, her traditional greeting of an air kiss missing by inches because he couldn't lean all the way down toward her. "How are you feeling?"

House could see Stacy coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "I'm managing," he said.

"Hi Mom," Stacy said, stepping up next to House and leaning in to kiss Anna on the cheek. "I'm glad you could make it."

"You look tired, sweetheart, are you getting any sleep?"

"I'm fine, Mom," Stacy said.

"Greg, you shouldn't let her work so hard. Now that you're home, you should be able to make her take some time for herself. She's got a lot of other work to do, you know."

House just nodded and moved around Stacy to take his spot on the couch again. Wilson leaned down to scoop up the newspaper from the couch. "You'll have to wait to collect until I hit the ATM," he whispered. "I don't have thirty bucks on me just now."

---------------

House and Wilson left the table before Stacy had even pulled out dessert -- a simple cake she had made late that morning.

"You sure?" she said.

"I'll have some later," House said. "I just want to lie down for a while, if you can make do without me."

It wasn't completely a lie. He was tired, his leg was aching and his head was swimming from a mixture of the Vicodin and his screwed up sleep patterns. "Jimmy will keep me company," he said, and headed back into the bedroom before Stacy's mother could put up any argument.

House settled back against the headboard while Wilson closed the door and wheeled the TV up to the end of the bed. He tossed the controllers up toward House.

"Crap," he said. "I forgot to get the games. Hang on a minute."

House stopped him before he made it to the door. "Don't worry," he said. "I've got it covered."

He reached into the night stand and tossed a box at Wilson. "I've been waiting for the right opportunity to play this." Wilson turned the box over: Madden NFL 2001, released earlier that week.

"Nice. Stacy buy this for you?" He pulled the game out of the box and turned on the player.

"Nah. Turns out there's this thing called the Internet and something else called home delivery, and something else called credit cards," House said. He untangled the cord for his controller and tossed the other one to Wilson as he settled in on the mattress. "You're the Titans."

House dozed off before they'd finished a full game. Wilson had made an easier than expected touchdown and he was about to rag on House for playing lousy defense when he noticed House's eyelids were sliding shut. He had tried to turn off the game then, but House had protested he was ready to go. Four plays later, he was sound asleep, the controller still clutched in his hands.

Wilson turned off the set and slid off the bed. He opened the door as quietly as he could, wincing at the sound of a squeak coming from the hinges, then gently closed it behind him.

He stood silently in the hallway for a moment, waiting to see if House would call him back. He could hear Stacy and her mother talking in the living room.

"I just hate to see you throwing your career away, that's all," Anna Adams was saying.

"God, Mother. I am not throwing anything away," Stacy voice came out in an harsh whisper he had heard her use more than once on House when they were out in public. "I took a few days off to help Greg get settled. That's all."

"And this week?"

"This week I'm working from home for a few days. The key word being 'working,'" Stacy said.

Wilson knew he should cough, say something, make some noise so they knew he was there. He didn't. He wondered if House felt as guilty whenever he eavesdropped.

"Greg should realize that your career is important," Anna said. "He's going to hold you back just like he did two years ago when you didn't take that partnership in Washington."

"He doesn't hold me back. And that decision was all mine."

"So you keep saying."

"I keep saying it because it's the truth. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

"Maybe I don't understand why it is he doesn't want what's best for you. That's all I want," she said. "Like why doesn't he give you that big wedding you've always wanted."

"You're the one who always wanted that wedding, Mom, not me," Stacy said. "I don't need a priest ..."

Wilson stepped across into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He waited, counted to thirty, then to thirty again. He flushed the toilet, ran the water hard out of the faucet and made sure the door rattled as he opened it. When he walked out into the living room, Anna was sipping at her cup. Stacy turned to look at him.

"Hey," she said. She looked pleased to see him there.

"Thought I'd sit with the adults for a while," Wilson said and took a seat at the other end of the couch from where Stacy was sitting.

"Is Greg OK?"

"He's fine, just getting some sleep."

"Good." Stacy picked up her mug and glanced down into it before standing. "Want some coffee? I made a fresh pot."

"Sure, thanks."

Anna looked at him once Stacy left the room. Wilson wondered if she could sense the guilt he felt for listening in on the conversation, but she said nothing.

"Here you go." Stacy handed him a mug and she settled back down with her own mug in her hand. "You let him beat you on the new game?"

"We didn't finish yet, but I was ahead at the half," Wilson said. "You know he was probably just pretending to sleep so he could get in some practice before the final quarter."

"He is sneaky that way, isn't he," Stacy said and smiled as she took a sip of the coffee. "Maybe I should peek in on him, catch him in the act."

"I should get going," Anna announced. She stood and placed her cup on the end table.

"Mom, don't go yet. You barely got here."

"No, no, I'm fine," she said. "You kids have better things to do than listen to an old lady prattle on about things they don't think are important."

"Mom, that's not a problem," Stacy said. "And you haven't had dessert. Why don't you wait a little longer? Greg probably won't sleep for long. He usually doesn't during the afternoon."

"No," she said. "It's a long drive, and there's still all that construction to deal with."

She walked over to Stacy, who stood and gave her a hug. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." Anna looked around the room. "Now where did I put my purse?"

Wilson spotted it on the table near the door and walked over to get it for her. She kissed him on the cheek as he handed it over. "You always were a gentleman, James," she said. "Someday you'll find the right woman."

He walked her to the door and held it open for her as she pulled her keys out of her purse. "All right, I'm ready," she said. "Take care of yourselves, both of you." She walked down the hallway and Wilson closed the door behind her.

Stacy flopped down across House's favorite low-slung gaming chair, one that hadn't been used for weeks. "Thank God," she said. "Don't get me wrong, James, I love my mother. I just can't stand to be around her."

"I've come to understand that's a common disease," he said. "And yet it's been woefully underreported in all the medical journals."

"I need chocolate," Stacy said. "Do you need chocolate? No, wait. Men don't need chocolate."

"I don't know about need," Wilson said, "but I certainly wouldn't turn it down."

"Well there's cake and ice cream in the kitchen, if you can give me a hand," she said, and held out her hand to Wilson who took it and pulled her onto her feet.

They were perched on stools at the counter and Wilson had just cut himself another piece of cake when House entered the kitchen, blinking at the bright sunlight filling the room.

"Is the coast clear?" he asked.

"And you," Stacy said, pointing her fork at him. "You were no help at all."

House blinked again. "Sometimes retreat is the better part of valor," he said. "Or so I've been told." He moved a few feet into the kitchen. "You two leave me any of that?"


	2. September

SEPTEMBER

Stacy cracked open the bedroom door. She stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds inside the darkness. She heard nothing but deep breathing. She pushed the door open wider moving it quickly to avoid prolonging the squeak in the hinges . The beam of light from the hallway led the way across the hardwood floor to the far wall, and she followed it across the room.

She opened the closet door quickly and stepped inside before turning on the light. Her navy pumps were waiting in their usual spot on the shelves and she grabbed them, switching the light back off before she reached for the door knob.

She had taken to laying out her clothes in the spare room so she wouldn't disturb Greg on the days he didn't have any early appointments and could sleep in, but had forgotten the shoes the night before. Greg had crashed on the couch after PT yesterday afternoon, turning down dinner even when she made up a plate and brought it to him.

She had been getting her clothes ready before bed, double checking what she had in the spare room. Some of the staples in her wardrobe had already moved there permanently -- her favorite black suit, the cream-colored blazer, her Donna Karan red silk blouse -- since she wore them frequently. Besides, she had told Greg when she sorted through her closet one weekend, it would finally free up enough space for his things, so they wouldn't be jammed into one small corner any more.

"You always say I don't leave you enough room," she said. "Now you'll have room."

"In case you haven't noticed, the condition of my suits hasn't been a prime concern of mine lately," he said, and sulked off into the living room. She heard him slam down his crutches on the floor and the TV come on a moment later.

Last night, though, her nighttime ritual had been interrupted when she heard Greg in the kitchen, cupboards and drawers opening and closing, the beep of the microwave. She left him on his own until she heard a crash. She rushed in to find him trying to manipulate his crutches along with a broom. There was broken glass and a spreading spill of either water or 7-Up on the floor.

"Let me," she said, and grabbed for the broom. He didn't let go.

"I've got it," he said.

Stacy pulled harder. "Greg, let me handle this. You get out of here before you slip and hurt yourself."

Greg let go of the broom, but didn't back away. "I'm not going to fall."

Stacy scooped the broken glass into the dustpan and spread paper towels on the spill. "Greg just ..." She ran out of words and instead kneeled down to begin cleaning up the liquid, feeling the stickiness of a sugary blend. Soda then. Great. She tossed the paper towels into the trash and went into the pantry for the mop.

Greg hadn't moved. "Just go and let me clean this up," Stacy said. He stared at her for a moment longer, then moved off into the living room.

Stacy had mopped up the spill and cleaned the floor. Greg ignored her as she passed through the living room, and she slammed the bedroom door closed behind her, forgetting about the things she had been prepping in the other room. She had been nearly asleep when he finally came to bed hours later, making his way in the dark to his side of the bed.

Now it was early morning and she was the one moving through the dark. Stacy paused before heading back into the hall, watching the mound of blankets in the bed for any sign as to whether Greg was awake or not. She swore that once, not too long ago, she could tell when he was faking sleep. Lately she wasn't so certain. Either she had lost her edge, or he had increased his skill at it to avoid unwanted questions.

This morning, she thought maybe he was still asleep. She walked quietly back across the floor, opened the door quickly once again and stepped out into the hall.

She stood for just a few seconds there -- her shoes in one hand, her other hand on the door knob. There was still no sound from the bedroom.

Stacy walked across the hall to the spare room. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed the shoes on the floor. She reached for a pair of pantyhose and began pulling them up, then cursed as she spotted a run in them and pulled them back off. She walked over to the dresser and grabbed a new pair from the drawer and sat down again. She smiled a little when she remembered how Greg had once tried to work out the math that would show once and for all whether she was better off buying nylons that wouldn't snag as easily but were expensive, or ones that were more prone to run, but she could buy cheaply in bulk.

"I don't care what the numbers say," she had told him. "I like the feel of these better, and I can afford it."

Now she finished putting on the new pair and stepped into her shoes. Stacy stood and checked her hair and makeup in the mirror before she opened the jewelry box. The box had been one of the first items she moved into the spare room. It was small, but easily held the few pieces she wore regularly. She looked through it in search of the silver and emerald earrings Greg had given her for her birthday two years ago.

Stacy spotted them next to her mother's crucifix. She picked up the necklace and looked at it. She was not religious, and hadn't been in a church except for weddings and funerals since she'd left home. It had been at least 10 years since even her mother had given up on trying to guilt her back into attending services.

Despite their difference in opinion on organized religion, though, Stacy still could admire the work that went into her mother's piece -- the detail of the cross, the human face, even the crown of thorns visible on his bowed head. Her mother had given it to her shortly after Stacy had been accepted to Yale, following in her father's footsteps, into his alma mater, and into his profession. It had come from Greece, the same islands Anna's grandparents had lived in once upon a time.

"You are your father's daughter," Anna had said when she pressed the crucifix into Stacy's hand. "But you're mine as well. I want you to remember that."

"As if you'd ever let me forget," Stacy had said.

Stacy looked down at the necklace now in her hand. Anna would probably sympathize with Greg's newest avoidance tactics. She was good enough at it herself. Heck, she could probably teach him some new angles.

There was a lot to admire in Anna Adams, but she also had one personality quirk that annoyed Stacy above all others: the need to take off whenever things seemed to get rough. Oh she was great at stirring up issues. She loved to drop her emotional bombs, but once the collateral damage started racking up from those explosions, she was long gone.

Stacy looked up from the necklace at the closed bedroom door across the hallway, then at her own collection of clothes that seemed to be growing in the spare room. She put the necklace back in the jewelry box and pulled out the earrings. She shook her head. This was different. She and Greg were just making adjustments. No one was going anywhere.

Except to the office.

Things had piled up during the time she took off from work to help Greg. Stacy had intended to still work from home a few days a week , but the paperwork seemed overwhelming. And once she was back in her own office, she found it easier to concentrate. At home, there were too many distractions. She'd barely start on a document, then hear Greg moving around and get up to check on him. Even when he was quiet -- watching television or sleeping -- her mind wandered.

At her office, she could focus on actual work. There was no one there to worry about, no one to interrupt her. She started going in earlier to get a jump on the day, then began leaving later just to finish up the last few tasks.

The paperwork was back under control now, but Stacy still was going in early most days, taking advantage of the quiet before the hospital's halls began filling with patients and doctors.

She checked herself in the mirror one last time, then turned off the light and went out into the living room. The first hints of dawn were visible through the open curtains as she passed through and into kitchen.

She straightened up the newspaper on the table into one pile, then took her coffee mug over to the sink to dump the last few drops and rinse it out.

As she turned out the lights, she could see the red power light still glowing on the coffee maker. She fought the urge to turn it off, knowing it would automatically shut itself off in another hour. If Greg woke before that, the coffee would still be hot and ready for him.

Greg had complained when she turned it off when she first returned to work, saying he could always drink it when he got up.

"But you hate old coffee. You always make a fresh pot," Stacy said. She wondered if there was something else prompting his complaint. "Honey, are you worried you won't be able to ..."

"I'm perfectly capable of making a damn pot of coffee," Greg said. "And I'm not that picky. I just don't see a reason why we should make two pots in the morning just because I'm ... sleeping in."

"Not picky? You spent weeks researching the right pot to get one that would brew at just the right temperature. We had to special order it."

"Maybe I like old, warmed up coffee now."

"Since when?"

"Since I decided to drink it that way, OK? Is that all right with you?"

Stacy had walked out of the room shaking her head and hadn't bothered with turning off the coffee maker since then.

Stupid arguments, she thought and grabbed her bag on her way out the door. Stupid fights. She stepped out into the main hallway and locked the door behind her.

The fact that they had spent the last three months arguing shouldn't have surprised her. They had quarreled from the day they met.

Stacy had heard all the stories about Greg even before she laid eyes on him, with various people she respected describing him as everything from a pure genius to a raving lunatic. She expected to be underwhelmed when they finally did meet. She had known plenty of overachievers -- had lived with them, worked with them, partied with them. Few ever lived up to the hype.

Greg did -- both the good and the bad.

They finally met when he broke into her office. She had come back from lunch to find the door open and someone sitting in her chair, calmly going through her desk drawers.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't call security?" Stacy didn't step into the room, instead staying safely at the doorway.

"Not really," he said and closed the bottom right drawer before turning to her. "It might be kind of fun to hear you explain why it is you leave everything unlocked. It's practically a signed invitation to anyone with a nefarious scheme in mind."

"As opposed to whatever scheme you've got planned."

"I don't scheme. Waste of energy. I prefer efficiency -- like when I'm told I have to come down and sign some thingy, but there's no one here. Now I could sit and wait -- but you know how precious a doctor's time is. All those billable hours, gone. Or I could have come back, but you know, things sometimes slip my mind."

"So instead you break in."

"See? I knew you'd understand."

Stacy felt like she spent their first date on the witness stand, being grilled by every attorney she'd ever met.

"Lame," he said after she'd told him she had entered law school to emulate her father. "More like it was an attempt to get Daddy to notice you at all. Same college? Same law school? Tell me, did he even notice when you were hired out of law school to work for the White House Counsel's office? Or did he just have his secretary send you a card?"

She was still figuring out how to respond when he continued. "Was Daddy disappointed that you worked in the Clinton administration, when he had the Kennedy White House on his CV? I'm sure he found it a bit of a letdown."

She didn't know which bothered her more -- the fact that he was more on target than she wanted to admit, or that he already knew more about her family than friends she'd known for years.

When she saw the envelope from him in the interoffice mail three days later, she nearly tossed it out without looking at it. Inside were two tickets to a performance of Mahler's Resurrection Symphony in Philadelphia she faintly recalled mentioning in passing. The note inside mentioned she should use them so that she could actually enjoy herself the next time she went out.

"Why did you send me these?" Stacy asked when she found Greg at his apartment that night.

"Peace offering," he said. "How did you find where I live?"

"Personnel records," she said and pushed past him into the room. "What makes you think I'd ever want to go anywhere with you again?"

"See, it's more efficient to break the rules," he said. "And I believe I didn't order you to bring me with you."

"I'm the hospital's attorney. I have a right to access those records. And if you didn't expect me to invite you, then why send two?"

"But does that right extend to personal use of those records solely to badger your dates? And if I really wanted to be sneaky I would have just shown up unannounced in the seat next to you. This way you have a choice."

"This isn't badgering," Stacy protested. "This is ... I don't know what it is, but I'm not going to bring you."

"I don't expect you to. It's been my experience that most women don't stick around for a second date with me."

"Then why give them to me?"

Greg shrugged. "I was hoping you were different."

They spent the first weeks after she moved in feeling their way around each other. Polite conversations, requests, kind words. Everything was new and different, filled with promise and adventure.

Now it seemed like they were going through that mating ritual all over again, but rather than new and different, everything felt altered and foreign, tense and anxious.

Rather than kind words, it was arguments and fights. They seemed to clash now, when they used to meld into one single unit.

And they seemed to fight about everything. About what to watch on TV, about whether to turn the TV on at all. About what to eat, or whether Greg wanted to ignore everything she put on his plate. About whether he'd be ready in time for Stacy to pick him up during lunch so he wouldn't be late for therapy or whether he'd done his exercises at home that day.

The one thing they didn't fight about was the one subject she was afraid to bring up: his surgery -- the one he didn't want and that she had approved. She had expected him to yell at her when he first woke up. Then thought maybe he was saving his energy until the next time he saw her. Then she thought that maybe he was just waiting until they were alone.

But he hadn't said anything. Instead he would just look at her. Everything wordless and everything exposed in his eyes. He would wake up, feel the pain, reach for his pills and stare at her.

He'd force himself across the room and onto the couch after PT, his foot seeming to drag a little more after the hours of forced effort, and look up at her before raising his leg up onto the cushions.

Stacy found herself at the hospital, unable to remember any of the details of the drive there. She shook her head to try and clear it, then headed in through the main entrance and up to her office.

-------------

Three hours into the day, Stacy picked up her water glass and noticed it was empty again. She didn't recall finishing it off, but then she had managed to work her way through more than five pages of notations for a revised brief since she arrived at her office. She checked her watch. Time enough for a break.

She saved the document on her laptop, then closed the cover and set the computer aside on the corner of her desk. She picked up the phone and hit the first saved number.

One ring. Two.

"Hello?" She could hear the faint sounds of something in the background. Probably the TV.

"Hi honey, how's it's going?"

"Did you know Rice-A-Roni costs $1.39 now?"

"I can't say that crossed my mind, no."

"When I was a kid and watched 'Price Is Right' with my Mom, it was only 33 cents."

"When you were a kid, dinosaurs still roamed the earth." She could hear the volume lowered on the television from Greg's end of the line.

"Watch it. You're older than me."

"By six weeks," she said and smiled. "Besides, I have a more youthful outlook."

"Then why do you always tell me to stop acting like a 2-year-old?"

"Because it'd be both illegal and immoral to sleep with a 2-year-old, and I wouldn't want you to ruin my stellar reputation."

"All this concern about your reputation, what about ..." he stopped in mid sentence and she could hear him catch his breath.

"Honey?" He didn't answer. "Greg? Honey?"

"I'm OK." The words sounded strained, forced.

"No you're not. What's wrong?" Stacy wondered if she should take an early lunch. She quickly considered what she'd need if she needed to work from home for the rest of the day.

"It's OK." His voice was stronger now. "It's better."

Stacy could hear his breathing even out and the faint movements of him shifting position on the couch. "Did you take your pills this morning?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Greg?"

"I took what I needed."

Right then. This again. "Honey, you know the Vicodin works better if you stick to a regular schedule."

"You may not realize this, but I do know what I'm doing."

"Look, I'm just ..."

"Trying to tell me what to do again."

"No I'm not," she protested. "I just hate to see you in pain."

"Too late for that, isn't it."

Stacy didn't know what to say to that. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.

"I don't want to fight," she finally said.

"At least we can agree on that."

They were both quiet again. Stacy took a breath and held it for a moment. She picked up her pen. "I just wanted to let you know that things are kind of crazy around here this morning," she said. "I don't think I'll be able to take a break and stop by at lunch."

"I think I can manage to fend for myself," he said. "You going to be working late too?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She wondered if he knew that her work load had finally eased up. It wouldn't surprise her if he did, but he hadn't called her on the lie.

"OK," he said. "I'll try to stick around here in case you need to reach me later."

"OK," she said. "And I'll be here if you need me. I love you."

Stacy sensed a slight pause before Greg replied. "Love you too," he said. She could hear the TV volume pick up again just before he hung up. She put the handset back into the cradle and stared at the phone for a moment, the black plastic, the gray number pad, the blinking red light signaling a waiting voice mail. She turned away from the phone and stood, grabbing her blazer.

She pulled one cigarette from the pack she kept stashed in the back of the center drawer, hidden under some envelopes. She put it in her pocket and grabbed a book of matches from another drawer. She had thought about buying a disposable lighter the last time she bought a pack at the nearby Wawa, but didn't. She kept telling herself that the cigarettes were just a temporary thing. A stress reliever. Investing in even a cheap lighter felt too permanent.

Stacy made a quick stop in the bathroom before she headed back down the hall and outside. The roof was a popular smoking break site for the orderlies and residents, the entrance near the ER favored by the attendings and nurses who didn't care who saw them flout the health warnings on every pack.

When she had time, Stacy would walk out along the winding path next to the hospital where there were benches hidden among the trees and she could sneak a smoke with no one seeing her. This time she went out a side entrance and around to the loading docks at the back of the hospital, where the only ones who might see her were either delivery truck drivers or maintenance crew workers who might know her face, but not her name.

-------------

Stacy had lunch at her desk, flipping idly through a magazine as she ate her soup.

She set it aside when a knock came at the door shortly before 1 p.m. "Come in," she called.

The door cracked open and James poked his head in. "Hey," he said. "You got a second? Greg said you were working through lunch, but I was thinking if you could take a break ..."

"Come on in, I'm good for now." Stacy waved him in. "I'm just waiting for a call." She wondered when she'd gotten so comfortable lying to people she cared about.

"I can come back," he offered.

"No, no. Have a seat." She swallowed the last of the soup as he sat, then tossed the container into the trash. "When did you talk to Greg?"

"A few minutes ago. I didn't see you around the cafeteria at your normal time, and I thought maybe you'd gone to have lunch with him."

Stacy leaned back in her chair. "Have I become that predictable?"

James smiled. "Don't worry. I'll keep your secret." He handed her a cream-colored envelope before settling into his chair. "It's from Julie. She wanted to thank you again for dinner on Saturday."

"Greg didn't scare her off?"

"Not yet."

"It's early," Stacy said. "And he was on his best behavior."

"You'll have to tell her that. She accused me of making it all up."

"I'm surprised you'd want to even consider risking exposing your dates to Greg so early in your relationship," she said.

James shrugged. "I'm thinking of using him as an early warning system: the House test."

Stacy looked him over. "Please don't tell me you're thinking you need to get his approval of your dates."

"God no," James shook his head. "If I were to wait until he approves of anyone, I might as well consider converting and joining the priesthood." He shuddered a bit. "I just figure that any woman that doesn't dump me after meeting my best friend may be a keeper."

Stacy had been surprised when James asked about bringing a date with him to dinner on Saturday. Julie had been a surprise too. She came from enough money that she could have had an easy life, but instead took advantage of her personal financial security to take on work as a speech therapist for a handful of poor rural and urban school districts that otherwise would not have been able to afford to bring one on staff.

Stacy had already nursed James through two tough divorces. Maybe someone like Julie could finally deal with the fact that getting involved with him would mean committing to a man whose first commitment would always be to medicine.

In truth, it had been Greg doing the nursing. Stacy hadn't known James well before his first divorce. It was only in the lonely months after his first wife split -- when he kept showing up at home with Greg at the end of a long day to relax over drinks and lousy movies -- that he became a fixture in both of their lives.

On the day his second marriage entered its final free fall, he showed up at their doorstep. Stacy had encouraged him to open up, though he never did -- at least to her.

"Of course he's not going to go all emotional on you," Greg had said. "Here's a news flash for you, Stace: Wilson is a guy."

"So what, he doesn't feel the same things a woman does?"

"This isn't some Mars or Venus thing, for God's sake, it's just that guys have a different way of dealing with things -- or not dealing with things, whatever." He pulled two beers out of the fridge.

"But he'll talk to you, because you're a guy."

"If he talks to me, it'll be because I'm his friend. And a guy. And I have alcohol." He headed back out toward their perches in front of the TV and Playstation where he and James had spent the past few hours. while she floated between her desk in the spare room and the kitchen. "Trust me on this. I'm a guy too."

Stacy paused in her memories, considering what Greg had said. She looked over at James as he sat across the desk from her.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Sorry," she said. "Just lost in thought, I guess."

"I really need to let you get back to your work." James stood, turned toward the door.

"No, James, wait a minute. I was thinking." She paused, wondering how to bring up the topic., then decided to plunge right in. "I'm worried about Greg."

James sat down again. "Something new or an old issue?"

"Like we need more issues on the table," she muttered, and he smiled. "The pain isn't going to get any better, is it?"

James blew out a breath and shook his head. "I don't think so, no." He looked her in the eye. "And I'm pretty sure he knows that too."

Stacy stared down at the notes spread across her desk. "He hates taking the pills." She ran her fingers across the raised letterhead on one of the papers. "I think he hates feeling like they're in control. He won't stick to a schedule. He waits to take anything until the pain gets really bad, then by the time he does take them, it's like they can barely put a dent into it."

She was surprised and frustrated to feel tears rise again. She used to think of herself as a rock, never shaken -- at least not in public. Now she seemed incapable of keeping any emotions under control. She took a deep breath and wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. She looked up to see James standing there, handing her a tissue.

"It's another adjustment he's got to learn how to make," he said. "And we both know how he hates having to change for anyone or anything."

"I was thinking you could talk to him, get him to be smart." Stacy wiped her eyes and James leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

"It's not that simple, Stacy," he said. "Pain management is a tricky thing. Everybody's got to find what works for him. Greg's got to have time to work that out for himself."

"But you could get him to see sense, get him to be smarter about it."

James shook his head. "Stacy, I don't ..."

"Please, James. I hate seeing him in pain and he won't listen to me. He fights everything I tell him, even when he knows it's for his own good." She looked away from James, down at the corner of the desk , the tears surfacing again. "It's like we keep having just one damn argument, over and over again, ever since the surgery."

"Stacy," James leaned down to her, his hand on her shoulder. "He still loves you. He's not blaming you for what happened."

"That's what you keep saying."

"And what does Greg say?"

"Nothing. He won't talk about it, and every time I try to, it's the same old story. He shuts down. He leaves the room. He changes the subject." She turned to James, his face slightly below hers now. "Does he talk to you about it?"

"It hasn't come up." He leaned back against the desk once more.

"Not even in passing?"

James shrugged. "We've been ... busy."

"New video games?"

"And he's trying to talk me into betting on how quickly the Yankees will clinch the pennant." He smiled as Stacy chuckled in spite of herself.

"He hates the Yankees."

"But he loves a good bet," James said. "Or any bet."

Stacy chuckled again and dried her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to go all weepy on you."

"Don't worry about it. You going to be OK?"

Stacy shrugged. "I guess so. I should let you get back to work. And I guess I should do some myself too."

"I know it seems like forever, but it's only been a few months," James said. "We just need to give him a little longer to adjust and trust that he knows what he's doing." He pushed himself away from the desk and squeezed her shoulder again. She laid her hand on top of his for a moment. "You're both going to make it. I know you will."

She took her hand down and he gave one more squeeze before he walked across the room again. He paused at the door and looked back her way. "I tell you what. I promise I'll keep an eye on his meds for you. Don't worry. I'll step in if he needs something different than what he's been getting."

Stacy nodded. "Thanks. You're a good friend, James."

"So are you. Both of you."

He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, the latch clicking into place, leaving Stacy sitting alone in the quiet.


	3. October

OCTOBER

"Greg? You need any help in there?"

House didn't answer. He knew Stacy would either ask again or come looking for him. Possibly both. Instead he concentrated on the knot that had worked itself into his shoelace. He tried to force his fingernails under one side of the knot, then gave up and tried to loosen the other.

He'd first found the knot the night before when he got undressed. He had tried to loosen it then, but his leg had been acting up all day, and protested the amount of time he had sat there, bent over it. He'd finally just given up and pulled the shoe off of his right foot and tossed it into the closet.

"Greg?" Stacy's voice came from somewhere in the hallway. She had been in the kitchen the first time.

"I'm OK," he called back. No reason to start a fight over something as simple as this. It had actually been more than two weeks since their last major quarrel -- with no real blood drawn since his parents had visited.

Maybe it was the one good thing that had come from that long weekend as he and Stacy united against a common enemy: his father. When John House had suggested that maybe Greg was still on the crutches because he wasn't following the therapists' instructions, Stacy had come to his defense.

"If he'd just been doing everything the therapists wanted, he might still be in a wheelchair," she'd said. "He's working harder than you could ever imagine."

His father had no response.

"You've always worked hard for everything you've ever wanted," his mother had said.

That night, after they were alone, Stacy had brought them both a glass of wine.

"I need it," she said. "And I didn't feel like drinking alone."

Maybe their victory over the old warrior had finally joined them into some kind of a truce.

Oh, they'd still bicker -- just as always -- but now the edges had finally worn smooth. They were almost comfortable. Stacy no longer seemed as brittle as she had been. She had cut back on the number of cigarettes she'd sneak, and seemed to finally trust him to handle his own meds. And somehow he was even finding it easier to look at her and not think about the decision she'd made.

For months, House had tried to tell himself that there were others far more at fault than Stacy for what had happened -- the original clinic doctor, those involved in the follow-ups, Cuddy, even himself. But the others weren't here, and he was finding it easy to avoid looking at himself in the mirror. Stacy was there. Every day. He tried to tell himself he didn't really blame Stacy for what had happened, but he couldn't quite seem to get past the anger either, despite this new détente.

And he wanted to get past it. He wanted to lay the blame elsewhere. He wanted things to go back to the way they were. He wanted the two of them to go back to the way they had been.

He had never expected things to be perfect -- even before the infarction -- but now he was just hoping that somehow everything could go back to normal.

But things weren't normal. They never could be again. Everything normal had been cut out of his life and turned into ash and dust in the medical incinerator along with that dead piece of his thigh muscle.

But sometimes he could begin to sense something of the way things had been before.

There were evenings when Stacy would set aside her work and sit beside him. Nights when she would point out some shadowed face in the crowd from the TV news footage at a campaign event. She'd lean over and share some tidbit from her days in D.C. of life inside the political bubble -- knowing how he loved gossip and knowing how her stories of scandals had always made him laugh.

There were days when he'd find something interesting in a journal article, link it to the the details of some past case and begin to see the outlines of a new approach to diagnosing an illness or treating one. There were days he'd get a call or e-mail from an old colleague looking for information -- days when he could forget himself and concentrate on the problem.

And there were nights when he and Stacy would wrap themselves around each other, finding new ways their bodies could fit together.

But now it was morning, and House found himself wondering again if today would be the day that new sense of normality would shatter.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, the shoe on his lap, House could hear Stacy's steps in the hall, then sense her presence in the bedroom even before she spoke.

"What's taking so long this time?" she asked from the doorway.

He held up his shoe.

"I think we need to hire an exorcist," he said. "Something has been sneaking into the closet and messing with my shoes again."

"Well you know, we could always have my mother stay for a few days." Stacy took the shoe from him and studied the knot. "She'd be bound to scare off all those demons you've got keeping the skeletons company in the closet."

"Never mind the demons. I'll leave."

"Coward." She handed the shoe back to him.

"What, you're not even going to try?" House still held it out to her. "Fingernails like those ought to make short work of this puny knot."

"Fingernails like these aren't worth breaking for your Nikes," she said.

Stacy went in the closet and House returned his attention to the knot.

"Here," she said, walking out from the closet with another pair of shoes in her hands. "Wear these instead."

House glanced at them, then looked away. "They don't match my outfit," he said. The last time he'd worn those had been three days before his leg began aching, during a long run out on the trails with Wilson.

Stacy looked them over. "There's nothing wrong with them, come on."

"I've nearly got this," he said.

"We're going to be late," Stacy said.

"You're going to be late. I've got plenty of time."

"You've got your blood tests scheduled for first thing this morning, then an appointment in ortho."

"I know that. I'm not an idiot," he said and looked back down at the lace. "But I go in with you and I'm stuck twiddling my thumbs for an hour before the labs open -- then there's another two hours to kill until PT."

"You could hang out with James." Stacy still held his running shoes out to him.

House shrugged. "He's got rounds. No one wants to miss rounds." He could still remember the morning shortly after surgery when he'd woken groggy from the meds to find a collection of students and residents crowding into his room.

"Just put these on, and let's go," Stacy said. "I don't want to be late."

House glanced down at the shoe in his lap again and smiled as the knot finally came loose. "Hah!" He looked up at Stacy. "And you doubted me."

"Fine. All is right in the world. Just put them on, and let's go."

House pushed himself up from the bed and took one of the two crutches leaning against the wall to his left. "Got to pee," he said. "I'll be just a minute -- unless you'd rather go on without me. Don't worry. I'll call a cab."

He didn't need to see Stacy to know her reaction as he set off for the bathroom using just the one crutch under his right arm. He'd been proud when he found he could make it a few steps around the condo without the hassle of handling both crutches. Stacy considered it an unnecessary risk, but at least she had stopped the verbal nagging -- instead using body language to make her point quite clear.

He could write a dictionary defining her moods based on the way she held herself -- how she rolled her eyes, the way she'd tap her fingers or toes, the cross of her arms and the tilt of her head. And each movement seemed to signal to him that somewhere, deep down, something was still off-balance with her, and with them, despite every temptation to find comfort in their new routines.

"This is your two-minute warning, Greg," she called through the door. "I am not about to field calls from every department asking why you're not there."

Thirty minutes later, she was wishing she had let him have his own way.

"Would you just sit there and be quiet? Read or something, would you?"

"I didn't bring anything to read. You got anything good?"

"Law books. Lots of them. Which I need to go through."

"Sounds boring."

"Then go get something from the gift shop."

"What, and give up all this close personal attention I'm getting now?"

The phone rang before she could respond. She recognized the incoming number on the display. "Great," she said. "Now my morning is complete." She picked up the handset. "Hi Mom."

House watched her lean down towards the phone, propping her head up on one elbow.

"This weekend? I think we're busy."

House leaned back against the cushions and stared up at the ceiling. There was a water spot there -- a brown discoloration that had seeped halfway across the white acoustic tile. He tried to remember what was above Stacy's office, and wondered where the spill came from.

"Yes, I know I haven't been over to visit, but you know I've been tied up with a couple of cases," Stacy said.

Pediatrics used to be somewhere up there, before it moved into the new wing, House recalled.

"Mom, I'm sorry, but can I call you back?" Stacy said.

House thought about heading upstairs before his appointment with Simpson and see what was directly above Stacy's office, but remembered he'd have to pass the infectious diseases office -- his office -- on the way there. Midmorning they'd just be finishing up a staff meeting, everyone spreading out through the halls -- a gantlet of fake smiles and useless exchanges of well wishes and pleasantries.

House pulled the Game Boy out of his backpack and turned it on, the beeps bouncing off the walls of the small office.

"Mom, this really isn't a good time." Stacy was looking at him, so House looked back down at his screen. "Yes, I'll remember to call. Tonight, OK? I'll call tonight after dinner."

He heard her hang up the phone. "Hey, I know. They've got magazines down in the waiting room."

"Read them all."

Stacy crossed the room to where he sat on the couch in a few short steps. She grabbed the Game Boy from his hands before he could react and stood there looking down at him. "Go read them again."

"I wasn't done with that," he said and held out his hand.

Stacy went back to her desk and tossed the game into a drawer. "Consider it a hostage. Behave yourself today, and I'll think about giving it back."

"I could just order another one, you know."

"But that'll take days to get here. Which means that this morning? Pure peace and quiet."

"Fine, fine." He grabbed the crutches and stood, then grabbed his bag. "I'll know if you're just hogging it to try and beat your best score, though."

"Go. Now."

"Going."

He opened the door and was turning to pull it closed when she looked up at him again. "Greg? I'll pick you up after PT. Wait for me there."

"Don't worry. I think I can remember the routine."

------------

Four hours later, House was waiting on the bench just inside the main entrance to rehab. His muscles were still trembling -- in his good leg, in his bad leg, in his arms. His shoulders still burned from the exertion, and now the fine layer of sweat beneath his t-shirt and sweats was beginning to cool, leaving him cold.

He reached into his bag and grabbed his jacket. He pulled it on and zipped it up, trying to draw some warmth from the thick fabric.

He fumbled with one of the side pockets on the bag and pulled out his pill bottle, shaking a Vicodin into his hand. If he took one now, it should just about kick in by the time he got home and could crash on the couch. Another reach inside the bag and he had a small water bottle. It had taken him weeks to get used to carrying the damn pills, and then found himself high and dry one day when he didn't have anything on hand to wash them down with. Ever since he'd taken to stashing water in his pack.

House swallowed the pill and a few gulps of water, then leaned back against the wall and tried to relax his muscles, naming each one as it shivered and shook.

He wished he had brought his CD player so he had something to listen to. He wished Stacy hadn't stolen his Game Boy. He wished she would show up already .

House heard a familiar step in the hallway just before the door opened. He looked up.

"I didn't think I pissed her off that much," he said as Wilson entered the room.

"What?"

"Stacy. I know she was upset this morning, but I didn't think she'd just dump me on you."

"House, wait." Wilson held his hand up. "Stacy got a call maybe two hours ago. It's her Mom -- a massive stroke, probably some intra-cranial bleeding from the first reports."

House sat up. "Is she..."

"She's still hanging in there, last I heard. I talked to the doctor over at Shore Memorial for Stacy, but it doesn't look good."

House pushed himself forward and handed his bag to Wilson before reaching toward the crutches. "Stacy still here or is she packing some bags back at home?"

"No, she's ... she left," Wilson sat on the bench to House's left. "She said she tried to page you ..."

"You can't hear the pages in there," House said, nodding back at the therapy room. "At least I've never heard them." He leaned back again. "But why didn't she just come by and tell me? Why didn't she send someone? I would have gone with her."

Wilson shrugged and set House's bag on the floor between his feet. "I don't know. I don't think she was thinking about too clearly just then. Cuddy said she just grabbed all the papers from her desk and stuffed them into her bag, insisting that they were important. She called me maybe fifteen minutes ago and asked me to come by and pick you up."

"So she remembered her work, and not me?"

"Hell, I don't know, House. Like I said, she wasn't thinking about anything too clearly except the fastest route to Somers Point. You know her. She starts thinking of a plan of attack and nothing can change her mind."

House nodded. "Yeah. I've noticed." He rubbed at his leg, the pain continuing to build. He should have taken the Vicodin earlier. "OK. I guess I'll pack some stuff for both of us." He started to think about what they'd need before the thought struck him that he needed a way to get there.

"Stacy was thinking you should stick around home for now," Wilson said. "She wasn't too certain how crazy everything would be, and she didn't want you to miss any appointments."

"They can wait."

"I know," Wilson said. "That's what I told her, but you know ... plan of attack and all. She said she'd call you at home later." He picked up the bag again, moving it up to his lap. "I'd take you myself, but ..."

"That's OK. You've got the ... thing."

"Yeah, the thing," Wilson said with a slight chuckle. "With the people." He stood and shouldered the pack. "Come on, I'll take you home."

House shrugged, grabbed the crutches and pushed himself up. "Grab that for me, will you?" He nodded back down toward the spot where his crutches had been. A silver aluminum cane was leaning against the wall.

"Hey, this is new, isn't it?" Wilson smiled. "Fantastic."

"Don't get carried away," House warned. "It's just a trial run, for around the house. See how it works."

Wilson picked it up, looking from it to House and back, still smiling.

"Besides, it's too damned ugly to take out into public," House said.

"I think it's beautiful," Wilson said.

"Watch what you say or Julie will get jealous."

"I don't care." Wilson pushed open the door and waited for House to pass through. "I'm out in the visitor lot," he said, then matched his speed to House's as they headed toward the main hallway.

"Hey, does Stacy know?"

"Know what?"

"About the cane." Wilson held open another set of doors for House as they made their way toward the clinic waiting room.

"Not yet," House said. "I thought I'd surprise her." He shook his head. "Sounds stupid, doesn't it."

"No it doesn't," Wilson said. "And you still can surprise her. It just might have to wait a few hours is all. That'll give you time to practice."

They stepped out into the gray fall afternoon. "Wait here. I'll be right back with the car," Wilson said and trotted off into the parking lot, House's bag bouncing on his shoulder the cane held tightly in his right hand.

"Not like I'm wanted anywhere else," House mumbled and leaned against the brick wall.

---------

House startled awake as the telephone rang. He hadn't planned to fall asleep. He'd grabbed the cordless phone and a phone book as soon as he got home and started making calls, checking out the best way to get himself to Somers Point. But the Vicodin and hours of PT both hit him once he settled himself on the couch.

The phone rang again and he grabbed it, hitting the power button.

"'lo?"

"I woke you up, didn't I," Stacy's voice was on the other end of the line. She sounded tired and worried. It was a tone he'd never heard from her before the infarction, but one that he now heard even in his dreams.

"It's OK. How's your mom doing?" House shoved himself back until he was sitting up with his back against the armrest.

"Not good. They've got her on a ventilator."

House nodded, though he knew Stacy couldn't see him.

"One of the neighbors found her," Stacy was saying. "God, Greg, I keep thinking that I should have been there. I should have talked to her this morning, I might have been able to ...

"You don't know that," he said. "You shouldn't try to take the blame for everything that happens, you know."

"Just some things," she said.

House didn't bother trying to argue with her about it. "Why don't you have me talk to her doctor. Is he around?"

"Not just now, but he said he'd be back soon. Something about taking her in for a repeat CT scan."

House nodded again. "They want to get a better handle on her condition," he said.

"That sounds right," she sighed. "It's hard to keep it all straight sometimes. Things get so ..."

"Confusing?"

"Yeah," she said. "I might call you next time he comes with an update, and let you talk to him."

"I definitely want to talk to him," he said. "We need to make sure he's not another run-of-the-mill idiot."

"That's not exactly reassuring, Greg."

"It wasn't supposed to be."

"Greg ..." Stacy didn't bother finishing whatever it was she was going to say.

"Listen. I made some calls and found a service that'll drive me down first thing in the morning," House said.

"I don't know ..."

"Don't worry, it's not like we can't afford it." The metro town car wouldn't be cheap, but it'd be easier to stretch out in the back seat of the full-size sedan than the Impala the cab service would probably send.

"It's not that." Stacy took a breath and House could hear the usual background chatter of a nurse's station.

"Come on Stace, you don't need to be going through this alone," House said. "Sickness and health and all that, you know."

"We're not married."

"Doesn't matter."

House sat up the rest of the way, swinging his left leg off the couch. "Do you not want me there?"

"Of course I want you here," she said. "But it's crazy here, you know how it is. You'd miss PT, you wouldn't be able to get any rest ..."

"Stacy, I'm not fragile. I won't break apart if someone looks at me the wrong way or I don't get my nap."

"Greg, please. I can't deal with this and worry about you at the same time."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"I just ... I can't have this conversation now, just trust me, OK?"

House managed to stop himself from commenting on the last time he'd trusted her. He could hear her walk away from the nurses station. He heard the sound of a door opening, then closing. Even through the cell phone connection he could hear the sound of her footsteps echoing, and he guessed she had retreated to a stairwell for some privacy. He wondered if she was crying.

"All right," he said. "I'll cancel the car for now, but I want you to hook me up with her doctor, next time you see him, or I'll track him down myself, OK?"

House could heard Stacy sniff and heard the rustle of something soft. Definitely crying. He leaned back again into the thick couch cushions. He thought about shifting his leg over onto the floor, but knew how painful the move could be, and didn't want to risk giving away anything that might let Stacy know.

"OK," she said. She sniffed again. "How'd therapy go today?"

"Oh, I ran them into the ground. Left them exhausted and crying uncle," he said. "The usual." He looked over at where the cane was lying on the floor, next to the crutches.

Stacy seemed to laugh at little at that. "You really should take it easy on them, you know. They're mere mortals, unlike you."

"Nah. They're my sworn enemies. Never give up. Never surrender."

This time it was a full chuckle. House smiled a little at her reaction.

"You know I love you, right?" she said.

"You too," he said.

She was silent for a moment, then he could hear her shift, heard the sound of her footsteps echoing again. "I want to get back in there."

"OK," House said. "I'll be here."

"Oh, Greg, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Send me my crucifix, would you?"

"Think she's going to ask you about it when she wakes up?"

"Of course not," she said. "I just want it."

But not me, he thought.

"Sure," he said. "I'll get it out in an overnight package, if that's OK. Want me to send it to your mom's place or the hospital?"

"Um, I don't ... I don't know. Maybe my Mom's? But if I'm not there ..."

"Don't worry about it," House interrupted. "I'll figure it out. I'm sure Wilson knows someone there he can have it sent to as a favor. I'll let you know where you can pick it up."

"OK. Thanks."

He could hear her walk back through the door and out into the busy corridor.

"You want me to send anything else, or were you planning on going nude to set off the crucifix even better?"

"Funny," she said. "You're a funny guy. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"They're usually too busy telling me to shut the hell up. I don't know why, I have a highly refined sense of humor, at least that's what all the strippers tell me. I remember this one time ..."

"Greg, shut the hell up."

"Now that sounds familiar," House said. "So, clothes? Or should I tell Wilson's friend to take pictures?"

"I think I'll be OK," she said. "I've got my gym bag in the car, and I can grab a few things at the store if I need them."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Because we could make some decent cash under the table with a little nudity -- you know, the artsy kind of nudity. Very artistic."

She chuckled again briefly. "I've got to go. I'll be turning off my phone, but I'll call you later, OK?"

"Sure," he said. "Fine."

"Greg? You sure you're OK?"

"Fine," he said. "Go talk to your Mom. Tell her hello for me."

"OK. Bye."

She cut the connection and House put the phone on the end table. He took a deep breath and finally moved his leg down off the couch and onto the floor. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling as he waited for the pain to ease.

When he checked his watch it read 4:17 p.m. He still had time to get the crucifix to a delivery place. He grabbed for the phone again, and punched a familiar set of numbers with his thumb.

"Wilson," he said. "Got a job for you."


	4. November

NOVEMBER

Wilson's newest patient gathered her things from an empty chair in his office: coat, scarf, gloves. She put her notebook into a large canvas bag along with the pamphlets he had given her. He could see a few notes she had scribbled across one white page.

"I know it all seems overwhelming now, but we can get this under control," he told her. She still had that shocked look on her face that most people did when he first saw them. "We've caught this at a very early stage, and it's highly treatable."

She put on her coat and then held out her hand to shake his.

"Thanks," she said.

"I know this sounds impossible, but try not to get too worried," Wilson said. He shook her hand, then walked her across the room. "We've got a rough couple of months up ahead, but everything looks really good in the long term."

She nodded and he opened the door for her, then watched her cross through the outer office.

"Dr. Wilson? Call for you on line three." Wilson nodded to acknowledge the department's admin assistant sitting at the desk to his left. "It's Dr. House's wife. Should I take a message?"

Wilson sighed. Carol was a good person, but probably should have retired years ago. She had gotten it into her head that House and Stacy were married, and he'd long ago stopped trying to convince her otherwise.

"Can you take it or do you want me to take a message?"

"I've got it, Carol," he said. "Thanks."

He stepped back into his office, closed the door behind him and sat behind his desk, hitting the connection for the line. He didn't recognize the number on the display.

"Hi Stacy," he said.

"Hello James. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Wilson leaned back in his chair. "No, it's fine," he said. "I just finished with a patient, and now I've got an excuse to avoid paperwork. How are you holding up?"

He could hear her blow out a breath. "I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer in control of my own life," she said.

He smiled a little. "I highly doubt that. You're the most 'in control' person I've ever met. Heck, you even keep Greg in line."

"All I can do with Greg is keep him on a leash. He still finds a way to create havoc no matter what I do."

"And yet you love him despite that."

"Sometimes," she said. Wilson tried to convince himself that she was just joking but he didn't hear an amused tone to her voice.

Stacy had headed to Somers Point after work on Thursday to meet with the attorneys and real estate agents regarding her mother's property. It had been not quite a month since the funeral, and Stacy said it was time to start thinking about what came next.

"Don't feel like you have to rush," Wilson had told her

"I'm not going to rush, but someone has to make the decisions. I'm the only child. If I don't do something soon, my cousins will just declare that I can't make decisions for myself and begin bickering over who gets the furniture. I'd better at least start to make some plans," she said.

Stacy had hoped to get much of the official paperwork handled right away. "I've got some filings that I have to get over to probate, and Mom's attorney won't have them drawn up until Monday at the earliest," she told Wilson now. "I want to interview some more realtors, but I think half of them are preparing open houses and the other half have given up on the prospect of selling anything for the next two months and gone out of town on a pre-Thanksgiving break."

"I thought you were going to wait until the start of summer to put the house up for sale," Wilson said.

"I am, but I don't even know what it would bring in the current market," she said. "My parents owned it for more than 30 years, and I don't know if it's worth doing some updating or if I should hang onto it for a while or just toss it out onto the market and see what happens."

"You're thinking of hanging onto it now?" Wilson sat up.

This was something new. Stacy had always claimed she didn't care for the shore house -- too big, too traditional, too stuffy. It was filled with either the delicate antiques passed down through her father's family or what she had termed the "ethnic kitsch" of her mother's. When the day came, she had often said, she would sell it off and split the cash between a condo in the mountains and a smaller place on the beach further south, where the water was warmer and her cousins were thousands of miles away.

"Don't be ridiculous, James," she voice said now over the phone line. "I'm not talking about anything long-term, but I was talking to one agent who suggested turning into an income property -- you know, rent it out as a weekly vacation place."

"Wouldn't that mean you'd have to spent more time over there looking after it?"

"Not necessarily," Stacy said. "I could hire a management company to keep track of things."

"But I thought you said you wanted to take care of everything now. Get it all over with quickly," he said.

"I know, I know, but there's so much here I have to go through," Stacy said. "My Mom never even cleaned out my Dad's office. He's got letters here from Bobby Kennedy dealing with his work down south that were supposed to go to his school for their collections."

"OK."

"James, is it my imagination or are you giving me a hard time about all this?"

"No, no," he said. "Not at all. You should do whatever you want to. I was just ... surprised is all. I didn't know you and Greg and had been talking about a change in plans.'

"I haven't talked to Greg about it yet," she said. "It hadn't really occurred to me until I got here. I had forgotten how nice it could be in the off-season. How quiet everything is. It's very ... calming."

It was also impractical, especially for House these days, Wilson thought, though he didn't say anything.

The house sat high to avoid storm surges. When Wilson had driven them both up to the house that first weekend after Anna's stroke -- when it was clear that there was no hope -- he and House had both sat there in the car after he turned off the engine, staring at the stairs.

It was 14 steps up to the main level. Wilson counted them out silently as he supported House up each one.

House spent each night they were there sleeping on the couch in her father's office, rather than face the additional steps up to the bedrooms on the second floor.

"Besides, the prices will only improve if I wait," Stacy said, interrupting his thoughts. "The dot com crowd is looking for more stable investments. I was thinking that if they wanted to come down and rent the place for a few weeks in the summer, it'd sell itself -- and at a high price."

"I guess."

"And this way I could hang onto it at least for a weekend or two when the weather warms up. You remember how nice that can be."

Wilson knew the weekend she was thinking of, more than two years ago. Anna had been in Europe and he, House and Stacy had spent a long July weekend there. He could remember the feel of salt drying on his skin as they sat on the porch after a day on the beach, the sound of Duke Ellington drifting through the air, sitting in the sun with a cold beer in his hand while a cool breeze blew off the water.

Then he thought again about the steps. Fourteen of them: seven from the foot of the driveway, then a landing, then another seven. He wondered if Stacy had lost herself in the memories of how things had been.

For a split second, he wondered if she was imagining a life for herself there that was separate from what she had now -- someplace without House. But he shook his head and ignored the thought. She was probably just hoping that House would continue to improve. She had been so supportive of him up until now. He told himself that Stacy probably had begun to expect he'd keep getting stronger and that the stairs wouldn't be a long-term obstacle. He told himself that he should sit down with her at some point and lay out the facts on House's reduced mobility again.

Stacy and House weren't like him or either of his wives, he told himself. They would make it. They'd already made it through the toughest times already, after all.

Stacy's voice interrupted his thoughts again. "Anyway, I thought I'd stay here for the weekend and start going through things, then meet with the attorneys and agents on Monday, rather than driving back and forth," she was saying. "You'll look out for Greg, won't you?"

"Of course, but he doesn't need a babysitter."

"Not a babysitter. Maybe a keeper," she said. "He keeps using the cane when he knows he's already tired. He fell yesterday when I brought him home from PT, before I headed out here. I think he fell in the morning when he was in the bathroom too, but he wouldn't admit it."

"Greg has always pushed himself hard, we shouldn't be surprised he's doing it now," Wilson said.

"I know, I know," Stacy said. "But back then it was strained muscles and a few days of bitching. Now? Now ...you know. And he gets mad when I say something, but if I don't say anything he tells me to stop staring and spit it out." She sighed. "You know, it sounds terrible to say this, but in some ways it's going to be easier being here, dealing with all this, then being home and relaxing with him."

Wilson could feel that sense of doom struggling back into the back of his mind. This time it was harder to ignore.

"Does that make me a bad person?" Stacy asked.

"You're not a bad person," Wilson said. "Maybe you're just tired."

"Maybe," she said. "Anyway, Greg's got his regular therapy plus his blood tests on Monday. Do you think you can spare some time to give him a ride?"

"Of course," he said. "Don't worry about anything. And try to get some rest, OK?"

"Sure. Thanks James."

-------------

Wilson heard a muffled response through the door after he knocked, but couldn't quite make out the words. He knocked again and heard House's voice again, slightly louder, and tried the knob. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open.

"Was that a 'Come in?'" he asked and closed the door behind him.

"Oh, it's you," House called from the kitchen. "I was thinking it was the hooker coming back for more."

Wilson stepped through into the doorway and into the kitchen. House was standing in front of the counter next to the stove, his body supported by the crutches under his shoulders, his hands busy chopping an onion while something sizzled in a stock pot on the stove.

"So how many hookers are you cooking for these days anyway?"

"Dozens." House swiveled slightly onto his left leg to look at Wilson. "You'd be surprised how much action you can get with a little white sauce."

"And here I've been wasting my time with chocolate and roses."

"Those are strictly amateur level," House said and turned back toward the counter. "To play on the pro level you've got to be know how to handle a decent reduction."

"But for some reason, this doesn't smell like a white wine kind of night."

"That's because you aren't worth that much effort."

Wilson leaned sideways onto the counter, watching House dice onions then transfer them into the pot. House put the cutting board back on the counter and switched over to cutting jalapeno peppers, making fast but even slices. "If that's some of your five-alarm chili that you're making, I'll pass on the wine anyway."

House paused in his chopping and looked over at him. "It'd be a shame not to make it, don't you think? First night I've had the chance since ..." he shrugged. "I was going to make some a few weeks back, but Stacy kept bitching that I was going to end up hurting myself somehow, and I didn't feel like arguing about it."

House had called him less than an hour after Wilson had talked to Stacy. Wilson had been with a patient, but the message was brief, declaring a guys' night out -- "or in, as the case may be" -- and ordering Wilson to pick up some movies.

"There's beer in the 'fridge," House said, disrupting his thoughts. "Am I going to get a lecture if I ask you to grab me one while you're at it?"

"Depends on whether you need one or if it'd do any good," Wilson said and grabbed two Heinekens. He opened both, then hopped up to sit on the counter to the left of House's cutting board.

"The answer to both would be a resounding no," House said and took a drink.

"That's what I figured," Wilson said. He nodded at the crutches. "Bad day?"

House sighed and set down the knife. "What's Stacy been saying now?"

"Nothing unusual."

"Just her usual litany of mother-henning, I'm sure," House said. "I'm fine. It's just easier to use the crutches when I'm going to be standing for a while. This way I've got my hands free. That's all."

Wilson shrugged. "OK," he said. He took another drink, then set the bottle on the counter, watching House's hands as he picked up the knife again and resumed cutting the peppers, then followed them as he dumped them into the pot. "She just mentioned that you fell a couple of times yesterday."

House tightened his grip on the wooden spoon in his right hand, then began stirring the mixture of meat, onions, garlic, peppers and spices. Wilson could pick up the whiff of cumin, chili powder and some other ingredients that House had never revealed. "It's nothing," he said and then tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot. "I fall down, I get up. It's the new world order."

Wilson looked down at the beer held between his own hands. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be a nag, but you know that as long as you're on the Coumadin ..."

"Yeah, yeah, we need to monitor all cuts and bruises," House said. He waved the knife at Wilson. "Want to take these away from me? Just in case?"

"As if you'd ever let me touch your precious French knives. I'm surprised you let Stacy handle them."

House shrugged. "Stacy has ways of getting what she wants," he said. "Sometimes it's easier to just give in." He took a long drink of the beer and closed his eyes.

Wilson looked over at him. "Give in? That doesn't sound like you."

House picked up his spoon again and went back to stirring the chili. "Some things you just can't fight," he said. "Or at least sooner or later you realize you can't win." He looked over at Wilson. "If you want to make yourself useful, I could use a couple of cans of tomatoes from the pantry."

--------------

Wilson finished off a beer halfway through the first Jackie Chan movie as the chili simmered. House shook his head and paused the DVD when Wilson went to get another one. He held up his beer, showing the bottle was still half-full.

"I have officially become a lightweight," he said, and took another sip. "One yuppie beer a night is about all I can handle."

"I'm sure it won't take you long to recover your form," Wilson said as he walked back into the living room. He offered House a Coke instead.

"It'll take years, if Stacy has anything to do with it."

"She worries." Wilson slouched back into the cushions and stretched his feet onto the coffee table. "That's not totally unexpected from someone who cares about you."

"She never did before." House flicked the tab on the can .

"Of course she did," Wilson said. "She just was better at hiding it."

"So why can't she do that now?"

Wilson took a drink and stared off at the bookshelves. "I don't know," he said. "She was scared as hell when you got sick. I guess maybe she still is."

House glared at Wilson down the length of the couch. "Well boo hoo for her." He stood and grabbed the cane from the end of the couch and walked back into the kitchen, Wilson following him. He paused at the door to change the cane for the crutches that had been leaning against the wall and made his way back over to the stove. "Maybe we should have a party to try and cheer her up."

He picked up the spoon with his right hand, lifting the lid of the stock pot with his left, steam and the scent of spices rising into the air. He tried to move closer to the stove, but couldn't handle the spoon, the lid and the crutches all at once, and the spoon and lid both slipped out of his hands when he grabbed for the crutches -- the lid clanging down on the metal surface of the stove, the spoon splattering red across the counter.

"Son of a bitch!"

He moved back from the stove. "Leave it," he ordered when Wilson reached for the sponge. "I've got it."

Wilson held up both hands. "OK, OK."

He watched House clean up the mess, then toss the sponge back into the sink. House turned back to the stove and picked up the spoon again, but seemed to just stare into the pot. Wilson leaned back against the counter, waiting House out.

"I don't get it," House finally said.

"Get what?"

"Her," House said. "I used to think I knew what she was thinking. Now?"

"Wow, a man not understanding how a woman thinks," Wilson said. "Radical concept."

"Stacy's not like that," House said. He still had his back to Wilson, but his shoulders weren't as tense. "Or she wasn't. She made sense -- at least most of the time."

House began stirring the chili again, more slowly this time. "Now she's always on edge. She's always crying over everything."

"Well, her Mom did just ..."

"Before that," House said. "There have been days when she seemed to act like everything that happened was all about her. As if I was supposed to apologize for putting her through so much. As if any of this was my choice at all. Like somehow I've dumped all this extra responsibility on her."

House set aside the spoon again and put the lid back on the pot. "It's only gotten worse since her Mom died. She used to laugh about her mother's taste in jewelry. Now she won't even leave home without that damn crucifix, like it's some kind of Eastern Orthodox mourning ritual. What's up with that?"

Wilson shrugged. "I guess it makes her feel closer to her Mom. You've got to expect she'll be on edge about a lot of things for a while, though. She's probably going to be overprotective about everything she cares about -- including you. Maybe you should just accept it and let her pamper you for a while."

House headed out of the kitchen again. He didn't bother slowing down long enough to switch over to the cane, instead propelling himself back into the living room. The movie was still paused, Jackie blurred in the middle of a roundhouse kick. House picked up the Heineken again and took three long gulps.

"It's not pampering, it's nagging" he said when he'd emptied the bottle. "And I don't want people taking care of me anyway. I never have. Hell, I got mad at my Mom if she tried to hold my hand to cross the street when I was three."

"You might not want help, but you do need it," Wilson said. "Don't even try to deny it, you know it's true whether you want to admit it or not."

"I just need to figure out new ways to do things."

"And I'm sure you will, but why do you have to make it so damn hard on people who care about you to help you out now?"

"Because it's hard on me, OK?" House said. "I don't see any reason why I should make it easy on you or Stacy or the guy holding open the door when he sees me coming just because you all seem to think you're doing a good deed."

House headed back into the kitchen carrying the empty bottle.

"Yeah, because doing something good for you is its own reward," Wilson muttered and followed him.

House rinsed out the bottle and put it in the sink to drain next to Wilson's empty.

"Why are you on my case all of a sudden anyway? Stacy put you up to playing twenty questions again?"

Wilson took another sip from his beer. "What, I need a reason to care now?"

"As if anyone could stop you from caring. It's embedded in your DNA. But you usually do a better job of hiding it when you're dealing with me. This line of questioning is almost amateurish. It's beneath your usual level."

"Well excuse me for not having the time to devise a master plan for checking up on you."

House leaned against the counter. He poked the end of the crutch under his left shoulder at Wilson, nearly touching him with the rubber tip. "Or maybe, this is actually some elaborate ruse, and you're actually worried about something else," House considered. "What's wrong, things going bad with Julie already?"

"What? No. No! God, House, why do you assume I have to have an ulterior motive every time I ask you a simple question?"

"Everyone does. It's human nature. You go to the car dealership and you really want the red sports car, but you let the salesman think you're only looking so he'll give you a better deal to try and lure you in."

"Right, because friends and used car salesmen operate on the same level."

"Of course not," House said. "Salesmen are more up front about what they want."

Wilson shook his head and took another gulp of his beer.

"Or say you're at the strip club, and Chesty McChesterson says she doesn't do lap dances ..."

"I'm begging you to stop," Wilson said.

"You sure? It was a great metaphor."

"Positive."

"Because I've got other examples."

"Each one a sterling character reference I'm sure."

"Great. So let's get back to how you compare to the used car salesman."

"Isn't the chili ready yet?"

"I've got to do a taste test, then let it simmer a while longer once I adjust the spices," House said. "So I'm going to guess that you're worried about meeting her folks, right? Got the big 'get acquainted' dinner coming up on Sunday. You're probably wondering how to break the news of the two divorces to them."

"Yes, I'm nervous, but not about that. Julie says she already told them," Wilson took another sip of his beer. "And, you're trying to change the subject."

"See? Human nature. First I insult you, then I pretend that I give a crap about your love life, and it's all about disguising the fact that I don't want to talk about me."

"Fine," Wilson said. "Consider the subject dropped. You are of no interest to me. But just one last thing: be careful."

House rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll let you know if I get any weird bruises." He took the lid off the stock pot again and stirred the mixture. "Now will you shut up?"

"That's not what I mean," Wilson said. "Well, yes, be careful that way, but just ... take it easy on Stacy for a while. Let her rag on her or whatever else she wants to say and let get it out of her system. Try not to fight everything she tells you for a while."

House took a bowl out of the cupboard and spooned a bit of the chili into it. "Oh right. So I suddenly stop fighting her and she'll be sure to stop worrying. No change in a character there. Great plan." He scooped some of the chili onto a tablespoon and blew across it to cool it down.

"Good point," Wilson said. "Plan B: let her have her way some of the time."

House slurped up the chili and seemed to consider the taste. "You try it," he said to Wilson and handed over the spoon.

Wilson took a sample of the chili and followed House's lead, cooling it off before putting it into his mouth. "Tastes perfect to me," he said.

"That's what I thought," House said. He opened a bottle of chili powder and poured more into the pot and stirred it in. "So what did Stacy say to you today that's got you so worried?" House put the lid back on the pot and put the spoon down on the cutting board. He stared down at the wood surface of the board and the wooden spoon across it. "What is she telling you she won't tell me?"

"Nothing," Wilson said. "It's nothing."

House turned toward him.

"She didn't say anything," Wilson said. "She's just ... she just seemed tired, that's all."

"We're all tired." House narrowed his eyes and Wilson could sense him studying his face for any hidden meaning.

"And maybe she's a little more tired just now," Wilson said. "I just thought you should give her some space for a few weeks and give her a break from worrying about you."

"Fine," House said. "No more worrying. Now will you shut up so we can watch the rest of the movie? It's a very complicated plot, you know."

House swapped out the crutches for the cane and walked back into the living room, settling back down on the couch.

"There's a plot?" Wilson sat down at the other end of the couch again and put his feet up on the coffee table.

"Sure," House said. "Very intricate. I think there are some bad guys who are mad at him. He's a chef in this one, isn't he?"

"I thought he was a TV star this time."

"Maybe he's both. Let's find out." House hit the play button again and Jackie finished his kick, the bad guy flipping back and to the ground.


	5. December

DECEMBER

The elevator groaned again, and Julie wondered if she and James should have opted for the stairs.

"You don't need to worry," James said, and Julie smiled at the way he always seemed to read her thoughts. "It's just old and cranky. It hasn't broken down yet. Besides," he said, winking at her, "I'm here to rescue you if anything happens."

"My hero." She placed her hands melodramatically over her heart and smiled at him.

"And even if it does, we'll just have a private New Year's party." James leaned down to kiss her and she forgot about the ominous sounds coming from over their heads and the grinding gears she felt through the soles of her shoes.

She returned the kiss, her hand reaching beneath his open coat and blazer. She could feel the texture of his cotton shirt and the soft lambswool of the scarf she had given him a week earlier. They both laughed as the elevator came to an abrupt stop, James' forehead bumping lightly against hers with the jolt.

"Darn it," she said as the door opened. "I guess I'll have to share you tonight after all."

James took her hand and brushed a soft kiss across her knuckles. He smiled. "Not all night," he said.

They had split the holiday season. James coming to her family's Christmas dinner after finishing a shift at the hospital, then Julie making the trip with him to his family's place for the last day of Hanukkah. Now it was New Year's Eve with Greg and Stacy, then a long day of bowl games and overeating with her friends on New Year's Day.

"You sure about this?" James paused before the door at the end of the hallway. "Your Mom said you usually ..."

"Stop worrying about what my mother thinks I should be doing," she said. "If it was up to her, I'd still be married, have 2.5 children and be meeting her for lunch at the club every Tuesday and Friday."

"She always makes it sound like I'm corrupting you."

"Maybe I like being corrupted," Julie said, and put her hands up around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her.

Her mother also kept telling her that James was overly devoted to his patients, that he wouldn't have time for her. Julie could see only virtue in his devotion to helping others. While her mother fretted that Julie could never settle for coming second to medicine in his life, she found his commitment admirable. Even today he had put in a few hours at the hospital, checking in on the handful of people who were continuing their treatments through the holidays and overseeing the treatment of a 12-year-old immunocompromised patient who had picked up an infection during a Christmas visit at home.

He had called her at a little past 6 p.m., telling her he was going to squeeze in a quick run before he picked her up. Julie could feel where his hair was still damp from his shower, and she could smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of his soap and shampoo.

"I cannot believe you left the house on a cold night like this with wet hair and no hat," she told him. "You'd think a doctor would know better."

"Maybe I should find someone who would look out for me," he said. "Someone who would stop me from doing such silly things."

"Maybe you should," Julie whispered.

"Got any suggestions on who I should ask?" His voice was a quiet rumble next to her ear. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her earlobe and neck.

"Greg, get away from the door and give them a little privacy," Julie could hear Stacy's muffled voice coming through the wood.

"Why? This is more entertaining than Dick Clark." She heard a shuffle of footsteps and the thumping sound she guessed was Greg's cane from the far side of the door.

James shook his head. "Sorry," he whispered, but he had a smile on his face.

The door swung open. Stacy was holding it open as Greg moved slowly across the living room, his back to the entrance.

"Happy New Year," Stacy said.

"It's not midnight yet," Greg called across the room as he reached the couch and slowly lowered himself onto it.

"Technically no," James said. He handed Stacy a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Julie had suggested he pick up for the evening. "But it is almost the new millennium. Finally. So you can stop bitching at everyone who spent 2000 saying it was the 21st century."

James took Julie's coat and hung it in the closet, then hung up his own. He was wearing the old soft corduroy blazer that she had dug out of the back of his closet one day -- the one she had told him she loved. He took her hand again and gave it a squeeze as he walked with her over to the living room. Julie sat in a leather chair at the end of the sofa and James perched on the overstuffed arm, his own arm across her shoulder.

"It's not a technicality, it's basic preschool." Greg said. "You begin counting with one, not zero. The century begins with 2001, not 2000."

"You _had_ to start him up on this again, didn't you," Stacy teased James as she came out of the kitchen with three glasses of red wine in her hands. She ignored Greg's outstretched hand and instead walked over to James and Julie, who both took a glass. "Now we'll be hearing about this all night."

Stacy took a sip from the last glass as she settled herself in an armchair at the other end of the couch, near Greg.

"Hey," Greg held out his hand. "You forgot mine."

"You know you're supposed to avoid alcohol with your meds," she said. "I'm letting you have champagne later as it is. You don't need any other complications."

"You're _letting _ me have champagne? Gee, Mom, maybe you'll _let_ me borrow the car keys for the big dance on Saturday too." If this was how much they fought when company was around,Julie wondered how they acted when they were on their own.

Stacy didn't respond to his comments, though, instead just looked at him across the top of her glass. Greg tossed his head back against the cushions. "Fine," he said. He gave out an aggravated sigh, then pushed himself forward and grabbed his cane.

Stacy set her glass down. "I can get you something else."

Julie looked at James, trying to tell if the bickering was upsetting him, but he didn't react at all. She figured he would know whether he should step in before a fight broke out, so she tried to ignore it as well.

"I can do it myself," Greg said and pushed himself onto his feet. He paused for just a moment, then made his way around the coffee table and toward the kitchen. "Unless you've got an objection to my having a Coke? Too much caffeine affecting the blood vessels?"

Stacy didn't respond. She picked up her glass again and took another sip of the wine. Julie took a drink herself and tried to find some way to change the topic. She could smell a rich fruity aroma coming from the glass and caught a touch of light spiciness rather than the dark tannin of a cabernet.

"It's wonderful wine, Stacy," she said. "Zinfandel?"

Stacy nodded. "A winery in Sonoma that Greg and I found a few years back when we took a long weekend out there."

Julie nodded. She saw James take a drink, but he didn't seem to be paying attention to the taste of the wine or the conversation. Instead he was watching Greg's progress across the floor, the smile he'd had all evening had disappeared.

"Greg presented a paper at a conference in San Francisco in ... '98 I think," Stacy was saying. "James, do you remember if that was '98 or '99?"

"'98," James said. He kept his eyes on Greg's back as he made his way into the kitchen. Julie looked at Greg as well and tried to see if she could notice anything different, but he looked the same to her: gaunt, unshaven, moody and moving with a lopsided motion as he leaned heavily on the cane. She had a image pop into her head of her brother and his friends racing Sunfish sailboats when they were kids, the small boats tilting to one side each time one of them tacked into the wind. Greg always seemed to list that same way, like a strong breeze could blow him over.

"Right." Stacy's voice drew Julie's attention back over to her. "In '98 then. It was during the middle of harvest and the fields and the wineries were just packed. We'd spend the mornings visiting a couple of wineries, then have a picnic lunch, then head to a couple more before dinner. Greg had tracked down this little bed and breakfast that was just beautiful and romantic." Stacy looked over at the kitchen door as Greg walked back into the living room, a can of Coke in his hand.

"I could get you the name of the place, if you're ever looking for a romantic getaway." Stacy looked back over at Julie and James.

"I'll let you know," James said. He was smiling again, and didn't seem to be paying any attention to Greg now as he made his way past the end table and to the couch, but Julie could feel James' hand tighten on her shoulder.

Julie put her hand on his and gave it a light squeeze. She wished she could read his mind as easily as he seemed to read hers.

She'd been drawn to James at the start by his good looks, his smile and his easy charm. The more she knew him, though, the more she found to love. He was devoted -- to his patients, to his friends, to medicine -- but she wasn't a fool. He'd been straight with her from the beginning: two marriages, two divorces. He had admitted to infidelities and had insisted on using a condom from the start.

But then Julie would never call herself a virtuous woman either, with one failed marriage already in her history and her own far-from-pure past. She knew no one was perfect, and liked to think that she had reached the point in her life where she could be a realist when it came to love and marriage.

James put his wine glass down on the coffee table and took her hand in his again. He leaned down. "I love you, you know," he said softly and kissed her once more.

"Of course if you really want to make it a romantic weekend, I can give you tips about more than where to sleep," Greg said interrupting the moment. "I've been thinking that now that I have the time, I should do the world a favor a write my own instruction manual: the House Sutra."

"Greg ..." Stacy warned.

"What?" Greg opened the can of Coke. "This is me being giving. I'm offering to share my gifts with the world."

"Ignore him," Stacy said to Julie. "He's just like every other old dog out there: all bark and no bite."

"Hey!" Greg protested.

James chuckled and gave Julie one more quick kiss before he slid off the chair arm to sit on the couch. She had learned long ago to follow his lead when it came to Greg. She had been unable to figure out Greg, but kept reminding herself that there must be something worthwhile somewhere in him if James enjoyed his company.

When James had first suggested she meet his friends, Julie could tell that it was a big step forward for the two of them. She had heard enough about Stacy and Greg to realize that they were like family to him, and enough to know that he respected their opinions.

She looked over at Stacy, who sat there with the same quiet, calm look of confidence she always had. She reminded Julie of every woman she had ever admired -- the ones that made her believe she had more to offer the world than a few dollars from her trust fund and the superficial work on committees that had satisfied her mother.

Greg was keeping up a steady flow of grumbling comments from his seat on the couch, saying something about Stacy never having a reason to complain in the past. He'd been quiet the first time Julie met him, but she could see now that was the exception. Most times he would threaten to overtake any conversation in the room -- at least until Stacy would shoot down one of his comments. But he always seemed able to make James laugh, and Julie liked that.

From James' descriptions, she had expected the perfect couple: equally matched in intellect and skills. Instead, whenever she saw them, they rarely seemed to talk to each other -- barely seeming to notice what the other person said.

She kept trying to find what it was they saw in each other. It was easy to find the attraction to Stacy, but what did Stacy see in Greg? Oh, he could keep up with her verbal volleys all right, but she knew there must be something more than that.

She watched them now at the other end of the couch. James was telling Greg something about someone named O'Neal that they apparently both knew from the hospital. Stacy seemed to be listening in as well, although she wasn't participating in the conversation. Julie tuned them out and took the opportunity to look around the condo.

There were photos of Greg and Stacy together in silver frames on the end table just off to her right side. They both looked happy and relaxed, so Julie could see the evidence that the two of them must have a good relationship -- or did at some point.

The furniture itself seemed to reflect a combination of two strong personalities -- wood and leather draped with afghans that looked both warm and hand knit. The accessories boasted both art deco style and 1950s kitsch. It all joined together into an exquisite blending of masculine lines and a feminine sense of style. It was impossible to figure out who picked out each piece.

Books filled the shelves along the walls and spilled out onto and under tables, though the stacks still somehow maintained a sense of tidiness, seeming properly ordered and catalogued even in their piles. The titles -- like the furniture -- crossed boundaries and tastes as well. There were the medical and legal texts that were each easy to trace to their owners, but also classic literature, mysteries, biographies, recent best sellers and essays that again defied any attempt she had made to figure out who read which book.

As James and Greg talked shop, Julie continued to let her eyes wander. The first time she visited the condo she had thought the piano must have belonged to Stacy. There was a sonata by Bach on top of the closed cover and just under it something by Chopin. She recognized a few other pieces as well from her own forced lessons when she was growing up.

The electric guitar stashed nearby she assumed belonged to Greg. Almost every man she knew had owned a Fender at some point in his life -- all part of the rebellious rock star phase they all seemed to go through. The piano, though, was different. No one crammed a baby grand into a small living room just to hang onto some lost part of their youth.

"That's great that you still play," she had told Stacy on that first night during the nickel tour of their home.

"Oh no, that's not mine," Stacy said. "Despite my mother's fervent wishes and three years of wasted lessons, I can barely find middle C. Greg's the musician." Stacy had turned toward Greg and smiled as she spoke, and Greg had caught her eye and given a slight smile and nod in return.

There was no music on the piano now. Instead there was a display Julie knew without a doubt had to belong to Stacy -- a small artificial tree with delicate silver and glass ornaments and a carefully arranged nativity scene.

"They were my mother's," Stacy said. Julie turned to see Stacy looking at her, a slight smile on her face. Stacy walked over to the side of the room where the decorations covered a small side table and part of the piano.

Julie joined her, carrying her wine glass. "They're beautiful."

Stacy took one of the figures off from the branch, stroking a finger over the edges of the angel's wings. "This one was always her favorite. She didn't let me touch it until the year I turned 12." She handed it to Julie. It was crystal -- heavier than she'd expected -- but with a lattice-like fringe along the edges of the wings.

"My Mom would always put up the tree and decorations at Thanksgiving and keep them up until Epiphany," Stacy said. "This was back when all we had were real trees, of course, and they always dried out. There would be needles all over the floor. My father would finally take the tree out halfway through January and there would just be a path of dropped needles all the way across the house. He was always a bit of a neat freak, and so he'd spend hours on his knees, picking up every needle."

Julie smiled and handed the angel back over to Stacy. Stacy looked down at it again. "My Dad bought an artificial tree sometime back in the '70s, but my Mom hated it. She refused to even take it out of the box."

"Was that the one she made us haul over to the Salvation Army a couple of years ago?" Julie turned to see Greg watching them. His voice was quiet, gentle. It was a tone she hadn't heard from him before.

"Yes, the one he stored in the garage," Stacy said. "That stuff, at least, she cleared out."

Stacy had her back to the room, placing the angel back on the tree. Greg watched her, as if he was somehow sensing something just from the shape of her spine.

"She finally broke down and got the little tree a couple of years after he died," Stacy said to Julie, nodding at the table top fake evergreen now on the piano. "She said she couldn't stand the sight of the needles without my father there to pick them up."

Stacy took a sip of her wine, then pointed to another ornament, this one a silver cherub. "My father bought her this one for their 25th Christmas together."

Julie ran her fingers over the edges of the ornament, then turned to Stacy. "How have you been holding up during the holidays?" She kept her voice quiet.

Stacy smiled a little and looked down at the shiny surface of the piano lid. "It's been hard," she said. "It's been a hard year for both of us." She turned briefly back to look across at Greg, but he seemed to be paying no attention to her now, instead talking to James again.

"Sounds like it," Julie said. "I don't think I can even imagine how it's been."

"James has been a big help," Stacy said. "He's a good person -- but then you already know that."

Julie chuckled. "I've had my suspicions." She absently swirled the zinfandel around in her glass. "At least you and Greg had each other through all of this. That must have helped."

"Well sure, of course," Stacy said. She looked briefly over at Greg and James, then turned away from them again and began making slight adjustments to the nativity scene. "I haven't told him everything, though. I wouldn't want him to feel he has to get too involved with everything related to my parents' property. He's got to focus on his therapy and rehab."

Julie nodded. James had told her often about how far Greg had come. He had been on crutches the first few times they met, and making his way awkwardly around the apartment on a cane a few weeks later. Just judging by the number of times James had rescheduled their dates to give Greg a hand with something -- or check in on him -- she guessed that his recuperation took most of his energy.

She liked to think that if she were in his position, though -- God forbid -- that she would find some way to devote some time to helping someone like Stacy.

"You know, if you ever need any help, you should call me," Julie said. "I don't schedule very many sessions on Friday afternoons, and I can usually free up a weekend when I need to."

"That's sweet of you, but you don't need to do that," Stacy put her hand on Julie's arm.

"I don't mind, and I know James is usually too tied up to get out of town on short notice ..."

"Really I'm fine," Stacy said. "But I'll keep it in mind, and may take you up on it sometime." She looked back over at Greg and James again. They were laughing about something. "I'm sure I drag James away from you often enough as it is."

"I don't mind," Julie said. "I'm sure if things were the other way around, Greg would be the way spending his free time helping out James."

"Um ..." Stacy shook her head slightly. "Maybe. I guess." She took another drink. "I'm sure he would. If James needed him."

A timer sounded from the kitchen. "I tell you what you can do for me," Stacy said. "Give me a hand in the kitchen?"

"Absolutely."

---------------

As Julie passed the sofa, she leaned over the back and gave Wilson a quick kiss on the cheek.

"What, nothing for me?" House said as Stacy passed him by on the way into the kitchen.

"You're getting food," she said and didn't slow down. Wilson could feel Julie's hand on his left arm, then felt her light touch sweep across her shoulders as she followed Stacy. When Wilson turned back toward House, House was taking a drink from Wilson's wine glass.

"Want me to get you your own glass?" Wilson asked when House set the glass back down on the coffee table. "I'll tell Stacy it's medicinal."

House shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I just wanted a taste. That's our last bottle from that trip."

"Well then, take this one," Wilson said. "You should have it."

House shook his head. "Nah, it's already past its prime anyway and Stacy always liked it better than I did." He took a drink of his Coke. "I'll have to see about getting her another case sometime."

"You sure?" Wilson picked up his glass again, holding it out toward House.

"Positive. I'll just hog more of the champagne at midnight."

Wilson shrugged and took another drink. He'd never developed the palate for wine that Stacy seemed to have, though he had to admit he always enjoyed any bottle she chose.

"Besides," House continued, "I think you'll need it. After all, you're the one in need of Dutch courage tonight. Maybe some Maker's Mark will help you pop the question."

Wilson swallowed down the wine quickly before he choked. He scooted closer to House and gestured to him to keep his voice down.

"How the hell did you know?" he whispered

"That's you're planning to ..."

"Shhhh." Wilson held up his hand again.

House rolled his eyes, but lowered his voice. "That you're planning to propose tonight? Easy. You keep checking your left pocket like you've got something in there that's as a precious as -- well -- diamonds. You're wearing that blazer that Julie once told you she liked even though you nearly threw out the last time you moved. And its New Year's Eve -- the last major holiday of the year that both of your religions share and you're enough of a romantic idiot that you'd think it was something romantic to do tonight."

"Because God forbid I should desire a romantic moment when I propose."

"Tell me, you planning to get down on one knee as well? Want Stacy to take a picture?"

"You have an objection? I could have sworn that once upon a time you said you wanted me to be happy."

"No, I said that I want to be happy." House took another drink of his Coke. "I know that pronouns can be confusing, but really, Wilson, I would have expected you could figure out the distinction between 'you' and 'me.'"

Wilson shook his head. "Fine. Maybe we should all just join you in your pit of despair and misery."

"Nah. Then it'd be too crowded and I'd have something else to bitch about."

Wilson leaned back into the cushions, his head dropping back until he was staring at the ceiling. He could smell roasted meat coming from the kitchen -- probably the standing rib roast that Stacy would sometimes pull off for special occasions.

He heard Julie laugh and smiled.

He rolled his head to the side. House had the TV on, with the sound muted. He was flipping past the channels. Wilson guessed that House's pain level was up. He had seen the way House leaned on the cane a little more when he walked across the room earlier. The temperatures had been dropping all week and snow began falling a few hours ago. He knew it was common for many people to feel an increase in pain with a change in the weather. It looked like this would be one more obstacle for House.

"Would you rather I didn't?" Wilson asked softly.

House kept flipping through the channels. "Didn't what?"

"Ask her tonight."

House turned away from the television to look at him. "Who am I to tell you whether you can get married?"

"You're no one," Wilson said. "I'm not talking about whether I ask Julie to marry me, I'm asking if you'd prefer I not do it here. Tonight. I could always do it later ... tomorrow maybe."

House shrugged. "Do whatever you want to. What does it matter whether I'm around or not?"

Wilson sat forward, his hands between his knees.

"I know things haven't been easy for you and Stacy lately," he said. "And I know that every time you've raised the topic of marriage she's cut you off."

"That's different," House said. He was watching the channels flip by again. "And it has nothing to do with you."

He stopped on one channel showing an NBA game being played somewhere on the west coast, the TV still on mute, the players moving silently up the court. House glanced briefly at Wilson, then back at the TV. "Go ahead and do it, if that's what you want."

"You sure?"

House nodded. "Sure," he said. "Fine." He shrugged. "Then at least somebody will have a happy new year."


	6. January

Four points of view on a bad January day.

JANUARY

JULIE

Julie eased the door open and listened for the warning rumbles of another fight starting in the other bedroom. It sounded quiet enough, so she stepped out and down the hall into the great room.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, then popped two slices of bread in the toaster. She heard Stacy's voice coming from the guest room and took a breath, waiting for the explosion she was sure would follow. She wondered if maybe she should take her breakfast back to her bedroom, but decided against it. It was her house, and she was getting tired of hiding out in her room.

Julie turned reached for her coffee cup and saw James' favorite mug sitting on the counter. She looked at the ring on her finger. The diamond was simple, but the setting exquisite. "Our room," she said to herself and smiled. "Our house."

"I'll tell you why!" Greg's voice blasted out from the guest room and she jumped, the smile gone now. She glanced over at the bedroom door, just off from the kitchen. It was still closed. "Because the last time I signed off on one of your legal papers didn't turn out so well for me!"

Julie gripped the edge of the counter and sighed. She had hoped this morning might be a quiet one, but no luck there. Again.

Four days of this now, Julie thought to herself, and every day it got worse. Stacy had called James for help before sunrise on Sunday, telling him that the pipes had burst at their condo. James had dressed quickly and headed out into the cold and dark. Within a few hours, he was on the phone, saying he had offered to let Greg and Stacy stay with them until repairs were finished.

"I'm sorry," James said. He was calling from the hospital, where he'd taken Greg for a quick checkup -- something to do with his knee. "I know I should have checked with you first ... "

"Don't be ridiculous," Julie told him. "This is your house too now. Besides, I would have really been upset if you'd sent them off to a hotel instead."

"Thanks," he said. "I love you."

She cleared out space in the spare bedroom. James had stashed boxes of his things there when he moved in two weeks earlier, and Julie carried some of them out to the living room and into the garage to clear an area around the bed.

James had shown up before noon with Greg. Stacy, he told her, would be heading over once she got things squared away at the condo.

Greg was hunched down on crutches, standing just inside the bedroom door, glaring at James. Julie had seen him on the crutches before, but he'd somehow seemed more confident on them just a few months ago. Now he looked tired and moved slowly. He even seemed older -- almost frail. Julie suddenly understood why it was James sometimes seemed so overly protective of him.

"I thought you were taking me home," Greg said.

James gave Julie a kiss and took a pillowcase from her hand. "That's what I like to call this place." He grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it into the pillowcase. Julie resisted the urge to straighten the pillow inside the cotton covering once he put it down.

"My home," Greg said.

"Come on, House, not again. We've been over this ..."

"A hotel then. Four stars ought to do it, and the insurance will pick up the costs."

James shook his head. He looked tired. "Stacy and I agreed this would be best ..."

"I don't care about what Stacy wants."

"House..." James rubbed one hand across his face. Julie was glad it was Sunday. She hoped his patients would all have good days and let him have the rest of the day off. She wanted to tuck him into bed and let him sleep for hours. She wished she could shield him from worries about his patients and Greg long enough to let him sleep.

"Just lie down before you fall down," James said. Julie looked at Greg again. His arms were shaking, even with the support of both crutches, rather than the cane. There was a bulge around his knee, under the jeans, that she guessed was from a brace of some kind. She realized she was staring at it and looked up to see Greg glaring at her.

"We'll argue about it later, all right?" James was saying.

Greg didn't agree, but he did move stiffly toward the bed. James helped ease him down then kneeled down to begin working at the shoe laces.

"Don't." Greg was staring at the floor, paying no attention to James. "I'll manage."

Julie saw James look at Greg, then turn to look at her. "Honey, do you think you could get me some coffee?" Julie turned her attention away from Greg and to James who was still on his knees in front of the bed. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Sure. I'll make a fresh pot." She looked at Greg again and gave him a smile. "What about you, Greg. Want some coffee?"

He didn't say anything.

"He's good, thanks." James stood and kissed her cheek. He smiled and turned back toward House as she headed into the kitchen.

"You're a pathetic liar, Wilson," she heard Greg say just before she pulled the door closed.

Now it was Thursday, and James had headed out without breakfast or coffee again. This morning the emergency call had come from the hospital, a problem with one of his patients. Julie was only half-awake as he gave her a quick kiss and was gone.

She hated seeing him work so hard, but was glad he hadn't been here for this morning's fight. The past few days had been tough on him. Sometimes they could hear the arguments start at night as they lay in bed, and James would just pull her close and hold her tightly.

"Don't you dare pull that crap on me just because I don't sympathize with whatever this insane death wish of yours is all about!" Stacy's voice this morning was nearly as loud as Greg's. Julie was surprised at the level of anger she heard, though not surprised that Greg could bring it out in her. "Why can't you just do something smart for once?"

"What, you mean do something the way you'd do it? Fine. Let me just see if I can figure out the best way to screw your life over and leave you in constant pain!"

Stacy's voice was quieter, but when she finally answered it still rang through the empty rooms. "You already have," she said.

A moment later, Julie heard the bedroom door open, then slam shut. Julie saw Stacy's shadow dart across the hall, looking up toward her just briefly before she closed herself off in the bathroom. She could hear her crying, then the sound of water rushing out of the faucet.

Julie tossed the rest of her coffee into the sink and decided to stop on the way to school for some coffee at the new Starbucks near the mall. She checked her watch. She had plenty of time. Maybe she'd grab a cup to take to James on her way in to work. She took her coat from the closet and walked into the garage, locking the door behind her.

----------------

STACY

"Damn you, Greg," Stacy whispered to herself. She had spent the past ten minutes fighting to get her emotions back under control, feeling the heat from the tears in her eyes as she lost control once more.

She ran a washcloth under the cold water and pressed it to her eyes. She tried to take comfort from the cool, thick cotton, but instead bit back another sob.

Stacy had been wondering when Greg would finally turn on her, finally turn all that rage, anger and venom in her direction. Turns out all it took was a piece of paper.

She had been after him for days to sign the affidavit so Lisa could move ahead with Nelson's disciplinary hearing. Stacy wanted to file a malpractice claim against the man for screwing up Greg's original diagnosis -- as well as the followup. She had told Greg she'd quit her work at the hospital so she could represent him, but Greg wouldn't agree to legal action. He wouldn't say why, but Stacy suspected it was because he was too damned stupid and too damned stubborn and too damned full of pride to admit that he shouldn't have paid attention to Nelson's diagnosis in the first place.

So when Lisa came up with the alternative earlier this month of at least getting Nelson before a review committee, Stacy had hoped that this, at least, would be a way to punish the man who had messed up their lives -- Greg's and hers.

Stacy had turned over Nelson's representation for the hearing to an outside counsel. Lisa and James helped her write up Greg's statement when he kept making excuses to avoid it. She presented him with a copy of it on Saturday.

Greg wouldn't even read it. "No," he said, when she asked him to sign it.

"Why not? You know he's a lousy doctor, I know he's a lousy doctor, Lisa knows he's a lousy doctor -- everyone knows. But he's got tenure, and Lisa's not going to be able to convince the board to revoke it unless she's got something from the review board -- unless you've changed your mind about the malpractice ..."

"No." Greg turned on one of his video games.

"For God's sake, Greg, just sign the damn thing. You won't have to say a thing. No testimony, nothing. Just let me take care of everything."

He stared up at her, but said nothing and then turned back to his game.

"Greg, you're the one who complains about how incompetent boobs should be taken out and shot. Why would you stop me from getting rid of this one?"

"If he hasn't figured out yet that he's useless, my saying so won't change his mind," Greg said. "And I'm sure Cuddy will find another way to get rid of him. She has ways of getting what she wants."

Stacy gave up for the time being and left the paperwork on the coffee table in front of him. "Just think about it, OK?" Greg didn't look at the papers or agree to anything, just kept playing.

On Sunday Greg woke her a little after 4 a.m. with the news that the bathroom had flooded. He was holding a flashlight and the light skittered across the walls as he stepped back to give her room. She pushed the covers back and noticed it was cold. She reached over to turn on the light.

"Power's out," Greg said.

"What did you do now?" Stacy asked. She took the flashlight from his hand. His fingers felt cold and damp.

"I didn't do anything," Greg protested. Stacy grabbed her robe from the hook on the closet door. "I woke up and heard the water."

She shone the light into the bathroom. The walls and floor were wet. She could see water dripping down from a crack in the ceiling.

"I called the emergency number for maintenance," Greg said. "Sounds like there's a problem all over the building. They were going to shut off the main lines coming in."

He walked down the hall to the closet. She could hear him rummaging through the boxes. A minute later he was back with another flashlight. The light coming from it was dim compared to the Maglite she carried and he shook it a few times. "Batteries are low. Do we have any extras?"

"Are you suggesting we just sit here in the cold and dark -- with no water?" Stacy shone the light over toward the bathroom. "Except what's on the floor, that is."

"You have any better suggestions?" Greg walked back into the bedroom and Stacy followed him after one last look at the flooded bedroom. She tied back one of the curtains while he pulled out a pair of jeans from the bottom dresser drawer.

"Oh,I don't know -- how about we find someplace warm, with power and water?"

Greg closed the drawer, then opened another and took out an old blue sweatshirt.

"There's no power," he said, and sat on the edge of the wooden chair James had placed next to the dresser.

"Yes," Stacy said. "I figured that out, what with the no heat and no lights."

"And no elevator," Greg said.

"So we take the st..." Her voice faded off as she saw the surprised look on Greg's face. He was half undressed, his pajama pants pooled at his ankles. His leg was bare, the scar white in the glare from her flashlight beam. She lowered the light to the floor.

He pushed the flannel pajamas past his feet, then grabbed the jeans, slowly guiding his right foot through the leg. He stood for a moment, pulled the denim up, then sat again.

"So you go," he said. "I'll stick around here and keep an eye on things."

"Greg, you can't stay here by yourself."

"Why not?" He pulled on the sweatshirt. The maize Michigan block M stood out bright against the darkness in the rest of the room. "You've had no problems leaving me on my own before."

"Greg..." Stacy began, but clenched her jaw and turned away. She had enough problems on her hands just now without playing into Greg's self-pity. The room seemed to be getting colder and she walked into the closet to dig out something warm. "It's freezing in here. What are you going to do, just sit in the cold and freeze to death?"

"Highly unlikely I'll freeze in 60 degrees." Greg's voice was slightly muffled by the closet walls. "In some regions, that's downright balmy."

"Not this one."

"Besides, I can start a fire."

"We're out of wood," Stacy countered. She reached up onto a shelf and found a favorite wool sweater.

"I'll wear a hat." Greg's voice had taken on that whining tone that Stacy hated. She grabbed a pair of lined nylon warm-up pants in addition to the sweater and pulled them on under her robe.

"Well, how long do they think these repairs are going to take?" She walked back into the bedroom. Greg was still sitting on the chair. He made a motion, but in the dark she couldn't make out what it was.

"Greg?" She tied back the curtain at the other window and looked outside. The street lights were out near the building, but she could see light coming from the far end of the block. The full moon added a little light to the room.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know if they know, but how long could it take to turn one water valve to the off position?"

"That doesn't fix the walls, or the ceiling or the pipes or the heat," she said. Stacy heard the faint ring of her cell phone coming from the living room.

"I gave them your number," Greg said.

The person on the other end of the line said he was asking residents to gather in the lobby in fifteen minutes so he could provide the information to everyone at once.

"What, he's too important to come up here himself?" Greg grumbled as Stacy got dressed.

"There are twenty units in this building," Stacy said. "It's more efficient this way."

Greg just grunted.

He wasn't any happier when Stacy returned with word that the emergency repairs would take most of the day -- and that was just for the main line. Pipes like the one crossing through the bathroom could take up to a week to fix.

"And I suppose Mr. Fixit had the perfect solution to what we should do in the meantime?"

"Leave," Stacy said.

"Hate to get into the habit of repeating myself, Stacy, but, no power, no elevator. I'm not going anyplace."

"You don't have any choice."

"Sure I do," Greg said. "This is me. Making a choice."

Stacy sat down next to him on the couch. The remains of the newspaper recycling bag were burning down to embers in the fireplace.

"I talked to him about that," she said softly. "He offered to have a couple of his guys come up and ..."

"No." Greg pushed himself up and stomped back into the bedroom. "Not going to happen."

"Greg, be reasonable," Stacy said. "You can't stay here."

"And I'm not being hauled down like a piece of luggage," he said.

"They aren't going to carry you, just ... well how did you manage the stairs at my Mom's place?"

Greg turned, stared down at her. "You weren't paying attention?"

"Believe it or not, Greg, I had other things on my mind." Stacy shook her head. She'd always hated the way he thought of himself as being the center of attention -- even, apparently, during her mother's funeral.

He stared at her a moment longer, then turned away. "Wilson helped me, but that was just one level." He sat on the edge of the bed.

"And you're stronger now than you were then." She sat next to him and put her hand on his left leg. "It's only one way -- down, not up. I know you can do it."

Greg looked down at the handle of the cane under his hand, then over at her. "I think this is the point where Knute Rockne is supposed to give the 'Win one for the Gipper' speech," he said.

"Knute's not here," she said. "And you hate Notre Dame."

They made it down the first set of stairs and to the landing marking the halfway spot between the second and third floors fairly smoothly, if a bit slow, Stacy thought. She had positioned herself on Greg's left side, helping to support his arm braced on the cane, one hand under his armpit, the other in front. He leaned heavily on the banister on the right.

She remembered how Greg used to run the stairs for exercise during bad snowstorms, and how he'd sometimes race the elevator up to their floor. If it didn't make any other stops, she'd win, and stand there waiting to see the look on his face as he'd burst out the door. Those times it made a stop on the second floor, she'd emerge to see him waiting for her, breathing heavily, but claiming he'd been waiting for at least five minutes.

Now he made her stop once on the next set of stairs, saying he needed to catch his breath. The second time he made her stop because he said he felt off balance.

He said he needed another break when they finally made it to the landing. Stacy leaned back against the wall to wait for him. At least there was only one more floor to the lobby, and there were benches there. They weren't comfortable, but Greg could sit and wait there when she went down for the car.

She checked her pocket for her keys and made sure she had the right ones. She did, but then remembered she had left her purse upstairs -- along with her driver's license and money.

She had put the purse down on the table when she went back into the bedroom to get Greg's prescriptions. She had told him to hang onto the pills, then opened the door to wait for him. Crap, she thought, her phone was on the table too.

Greg moved slightly and she thought he was finally ready to go, but he just took off his sweatshirt and leaned back against the railing again. Stacy took it from him and thought about how she should have grabbed their coats on the way out too. It would be cold in the underground parking garage and the car always seemed to take so long to warm up.

Stacy looked back up the stairs. They hadn't gone too far, she considered. It would make sense to go back up now to grab some things. But then Greg pushed himself away from the wall and toward the stairs.

"Oh," she said. "You ready?"

He nodded.

Stacy stepped in next to him. She tried to give him an encouraging look. "I knew you could do it," she said. Greg didn't say anything, just nodded slightly and took a deep breath.

He steadied himself on the first step and Stacy tried to think of everything she'd need.

Another step down. She really didn't need the license just to go to the underground parking and bring the car around, Stacy considered. But it would be cold, and it'd be good to have her coat until the car warmed up.

Another step. He paused again.

The emergency lighting in the stairwell was dim, providing more light than their flashlights had given in the room, but the landing below them seemed dark gray in the distance.

Stacy felt Greg's arm shake slightly and she tried to provide a little more support under his arm.

If she went up for her coat before going out to the car, then she could at least grab her purse and phone at the same time, Stacy considered.

Greg took another step and she could feel a steady tremble building in his arm. She tried to adjust her grip on him, but was still holding the sweatshirt in one hand. She was about to toss it to the side when Greg leaned against the wall. "Give me a minute," he said.

Stacy let go of him and draped the sweatshirt across her shoulders. She flipped her hair out of the way and realized something was missing. "Wait," she said. She touched her neck. No chain. The familiar weight of the crucifix was missing.

"Dammit," she said. Greg wiped the sweat from his face with his t-shirt and looked at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said. "You ready?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. Just a minute."

She looked up the landing above her her. A minute was all she needed.

"Listen, " she said. "I need to run back upstairs for something. You're good here, right?"

"What?" Greg's eyes widened, though he hadn't moved from the wall. "Can't it wait?"

"It'll be easier to head back up now," she said.

"Stacy ..." Greg said, but she was already heading up and passing the door leading to the second floor. "Stacy!"

"Be right back!" she shouted back down and reached for the door to the third floor.

Stacy unlocked the door and stepped back inside. She grabbed her purse and phone from the table, then turned the flashlight on as she made her way down the hall and to her jewelry box. The crucifix was on top and she quickly fastened the chain around her neck. As she turned to leave, the flashlight flickered across the dresser. One of the drawers was open slightly. She stopped to close it, then reconsidered, tossed her purse and phone onto the bed and opened it instead.

No telling how long they'd be gone. Might as well pack a change of clothes while she was here. Stacy grabbed one of Greg's abandoned gym bags and tossed in some underwear for him, a few t-shirts and a pair of pajama bottoms. She pushed aside an old flannel pair he liked to wear on lazy Sundays in favor of a newer pair that would be more fit for company, just in case.

Stacy moved into the closet and grabbed a few blouses and a t-shirt for herself, then a pair of jeans. She saw Greg's button-down shirts and wondered if she should pack one for him -- but that depended on where they ended up staying. She stopped and allowed the bag to drop to the floor. "Where will we stay?" she asked out loud. She froze, unable to think of what to pack or where to stay or even begin to think about how long it would take until she was back again in her own bed.

She had a sudden thought of all the nights she'd been away from home in the past few months -- at Greg's hospital bed, at her mothers, at her parents' home.

It was too much to consider all at once. She told herself they could make better plans once they got out -- but where were they going? And what the hell was going to go wrong next?

She needed to think, but she couldn't. She wondered if more pipes would break before the morning was through, and what would be ruined next. She thought of her parents' wedding photos that she had stored in the spare room, and her mother's Christmas decorations in a box under the bed. Should she be packing those up? Would they be safe here?

Too much.

Stacy allowed herself to sink down onto the floor, her back against the open door, staring at the organized line of her slacks and dresses hanging neatly in the closet.

Too many questions.

Stacy could feel the tears begin to form and she couldn't stop a sob from coming out. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, dropping her head down onto the nylon of her track pants.

"No more," she whispered, but she knew no one was listening. "I can't take any more," she begged. "Please."

Stacy wasn't' certain how long she cried, but when she finally stopped, she noticed she was cold again. She finally caught her breath and pushed herself up onto her feet.

She felt unsteady and reached out to hang onto a shelf until it felt like the floor was back under her feet. Stacy shook her head. She looked out into the bedroom and saw her phone lying on the unmade bed.

James told her she didn't need to apologize, just as she knew he would. He told her he'd be there in just a few minutes, just as she knew he would. He told her not to worry, just as she knew he would.

She hung up, feeling better already. She walked back into the closet and picked up the bag. She checked its contents and tossed in a few more things before placing it on the bed.

Stacy stepped carefully into the bathroom to grab some toiletries for both of them, but noticed that the puddle had spread. She didn't want to think about how much more of a mess the water would make if it went out into the hallway.

She went back to the hall closet and dug out a few of the old towels, then returned to the bathroom and spread them across the floor. She took the soaked ones and squeezed them out in the tub, repeating the process until she was sure the spill was under control.

Only then did she grab toothbrushes, deodorant and a few other things for the toiletry kit. One stop in the spare room for her makeup kit and she dropped both into the gym bag and zipped it shut.

She dropped her phone in the purse, grabbed it and the gym bag and headed out. At the closet she picked up some warm coats and finally headed out again, locking the door behind her.

Stacy could hear James' voice in the stairwell as she made her way down.

"I've got you," he was saying. "Just one more."

Stacy came around the final landing and saw James guiding Greg carefully down to sit on one of the last steps.

"Wow. It didn't take you long," she said. "I'm sorry about ..."

"Where the hell have you been?" Greg's voice was strained.

James put his hand lightly on Greg's shoulder, then walked up to meet Stacy. "I'll take care of those," he said, taking the gym bag and the coats. He sounded frustrated, like he did on long nights when he'd been in a losing battle for a patient. "Could you go upstairs and get Greg's crutches? I think he's going to need them."

"I don't want those damned things," Greg said.

James ignored him. "Please?" His voice was quiet. He sounded nearly as tired as she felt. "I'll look after things down here."

Stacy nodded and headed back up again.

Greg had refused to talk to her when she made it back down, and James didn't have much to say either. He just took the crutches and helped lead Greg outside and to his car parked at the front of the building.

Once Greg was settled, James stepped back inside where Stacy was waiting with the bags. "Why'd you leave him on the steps?"

"What?" Stacy was surprised by his tone. She wondered if James was accusing her of something. "He said he was OK. He was taking a break, so I went up to grab my ... my phone and purse."

"And I guess it just took longer than you expected, right?"

Stacy stared at him. "James, what's wrong? Did I do something ... is he all right?"

James crossed his arms and looked out the windows toward his car. He looked down at the floor, then shook his head. "He fell. Not far, I think. At least he told me it was just a couple of steps."

Stacy walked toward the door, but James put a hand on her arm. "He's OK. I think he may have strained his ACL, but I don't think it's anything serious. I called Simpson's service to have him come in and double check just to make sure."

"Ill take him in," Stacy said, but James didn't move his arm.

"I'll do it. You've got enough other things to deal with here."

Stacy sighed. "How mad is he?"

James put his hands in his pockets. "I think he's mostly pissed at himself."

"But I'm usually his second favorite target." She sat on one of the padded benches and looked up at James. "He'll probably take it out on you if I'm not there."

He shrugged. "Maybe, but I doubt it. I already promised him he could yell at Simpson for a while."

Stacy smiled a little at that. "Maybe that'll satisfy him." She looked down at her hands, then up at James again. "I swear, he told me he'd be all right for a couple of minutes. I never would have ..."

He held out his hands. "I know, and you shouldn't worry. He'll probably just get a lecture to take it easy for a while." Stacy heard a car horn outside the building. James looked out at the darkness and then grabbed the gym bag. "I'd better get going. You remember how to get to the house?"

Stacy nodded.

"OK," he said. "I'll see you there."

Greg barely spoke to her the rest of the day. She finally made it to James and Julie's place early Sunday afternoon. He was stretched out top of the comforter on the bed in the spare room, pillows under his leg. He listened to what she had to say about the time expected for the repairs., but didn't bother giving any opinions about what she should do.

When she asked whether they should have the crews repaint the bathroom a different color once they finished the plaster repairs, he just growled at her that she'd just do whatever she wanted to anyway. When she mentioned she was thinking of taking advantage of having the crews doing repairs to have them install another grab bar in the shower, he just shrugged and grabbed his crutches.

"Sure, why not. It's the latest in cripple home decor." He sat up and slowly swung himself over to the edge of the bed.

She could hear him draw in a breath when he stood up. Stacy took a step forward in case he stumbled, but didn't reach out to him. She had learned by now that he hated anyone helping him, especially when he needed help the most.

"Greg ..."

"Do whatever you want," he said, and moved off into the living room.

By Monday evening, she was hoping for a return of the silent treatment. Greg yelled when she moved his crutches for him. He cursed when she asked if he wanted her to pick up anything else for him from the condo. He bitched when she told him to keep his voice down -- that James and Julie could hear him.

Stacy was relieved when she headed in to work Tuesday morning.

"Go ahead and walk out," Greg yelled after her. "You're getting pretty good at that."

When she sat next to him on the couch Tuesday evening and tried to lay her head on his shoulder, he complained that his muscles were sore and told her to move. After dinner on Wednesday he told James in a loud voice that she was so turned off by the crutches and brace that she wouldn't even touch him.

She wasn't expecting any miracles this morning, but thought she'd give one last try at getting him to sign that damned affidavit. The peer review was scheduled for that afternoon. Lisa had said she could provide the medical evidence of Nelson's mistakes, but Stacy knew the case would be stronger with Greg's statements. But as usual, Greg didn't want to fix anything -- didn't want to do anything constructive.

The only thing Greg seemed to enjoy lately was fighting, and Stacy seemed to be his favorite opponent, whether she fought back or not.

Now she looked at herself in the mirror and fixed her makeup, hoping the redness in her eyes would fade by the time she made it to the office. Her hair was fine, her suit was acceptable. She could feel the crucifix against her skin under her turtleneck sweater and she put her hand against the slight impression of it, feeling the outline of it beneath her fingers.

She eased open the door. The bedroom door across the hall was still closed. She couldn't hear any sounds coming from inside. The kitchen was dim, one light left on over the island. She stepped out, grabbed her bag from the chair where she'd put it the night before. Greg could keep the papers. He could burn them for all she cared. They were useless anyway, just like everything else in her life.

She took her coat from the closet and let herself out the front door, locking it behind her.

-------------------

HOUSE

House had expected Stacy to slam the door even harder than she did, but she still managed to give it enough force that the mirror on top of the dresser wobbled slightly and something rattled loose in one of the boxes stacked against the wall. It sounded like glass and metal and he wondered briefly what it was.

House heard the water running in the bathroom, then heard the faucet run briefly in the kitchen. The layout of this place put the guest room right in the middle of everything: four steps to the bathroom, five to the kitchen, another five and you were in the living room. Great for cripples and voyeurs alike. He heard the back door open, then close, then the faint whirr of the garage door. So that was Julie gone.

He'd already seen Wilson leave at a few minutes past 3:30 a.m., probably because of some emergency with one of his cancer kids. House had been awake for nearly an hour, driven out of sleep and out of bed by an increasing ache in his leg. He had tried reading, but couldn't seem to concentrate on the novel. It wasn't interesting anyway, he told himself. Some lightweight piece of chick lit he'd found that he was pretty sure belonged to Julie. At least it better not belong to Wilson.

Wilson hadn't seemed surprised to see him up, and had pointed toward one of the boxes that he said contained his own books.

"Anything decent or just text books and self-help guides?" House asked.

"You're so desperate you're reading 'Bridget Jones' Diary' and yet you want to rag on me for my reading selections?"

"I don't expect much from Julie, but I've been holding out hope your brains haven't turned to mush," House said. "I'd hate to have another illusion shattered this week."

"I'm not making any promises, just offering alternatives," Wilson said and took his coat from the closet. He gave a brief wave as he walked out the back door. "See you later."

House had ended up going back to bed an hour or so later, managing to fall into a light sleep briefly before Stacy's alarm sounded. He laid there while she showered and dressed. He had nearly dozed off when she shook his shoulder and held the papers out at him and asked him again to sign.

Now she was hiding out in the bathroom. He knew how much she wanted to think that signing off on the review would somehow put an end to all the turmoil. Nelson would be gone, and she seemed to think it would give them all some kind of "closure." But there it was no good expecting anything to come to a close. Nothing had ended. Nothing would end. Signing a paper, firing a doctor -- none of it mattered.

House sat on the edge of the bed. His leg ached and his knee was stiff. He hadn't put on the brace when he first got up, and he knew that was something else Simpson would yell at him about, another example of how he failed to follow orders, how he failed to "appreciate" everything the glorious Simpson had done for him.

He reached over to the bedside table and shook out two Vicodin, swallowed them down with the last few gulps of water in the glass Stacy had placed there before she went to bed. He lifted his leg up onto the bed and lay down, listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom and waiting for the pain to ease. Gilmour was wrong, House thought -- or maybe it was Roger Waters -- the drugs may make you numb, but they were no comfort.

Sometimes it seemed like pain and drugs were becoming the only things he could rely on. During the past few months he'd grown accustomed to a steady ache coming from the remains of his thigh muscles. On good nights, it was no more than a dull murmur, something he could ignore if he woke up in the early morning hours and could even fall back asleep as long as he was tired enough. Other nights he was forced to shake out another Vicodin to settle the nerves and muscles.

The past few weeks had been even worse as the temperatures tumbled into a deep January freeze, and neither the pills nor the warm bed seemed to help. Most nights House ended up out in the living room where he could turn on the lights without bothering Stacy. Sometimes he'd pace, circling the couch as he tried to work the muscles loose. If that failed, he'd settle down in front of the TV and look for anything that could distract him. He'd tried playing the piano one time, but Stacy had come out with a bad case of bed head and nearly slammed the lid shut on his fingers.

It had been the pain that woke him on Sunday. He knew it was early, but the bedside clock was dark. The room seemed colder than normal too . He stepped carefully out into the hall and first heard the hiss of water from inside the bathroom. House took the Maglite from its spot in the hall closet and turned it on. There was water pooling on the tile floor.

He took a step into the bathroom and swung the light around, trying to find the source of the leak. There was water rolling down the walls. He could see a crack in the plaster, and when he shone the beam up at the ceiling there was another crack and a damp spot there.

He wondered if he should call the maintenance number. He wondered if there was even anyone there to take the call. If his father were there, House knew he'd be on his knees, pipe wrench in hand, bitching about how a real man knows how to fix things himself.

House had a few tools in the closet, but most of them were downstairs in the storage area in the garage, where he'd stashed them after changing the oil in Stacy's car during the summer, before everything changed.

He took another step into the bathroom. His bare foot touched cold water and he stepped back.

"Damn." House knew how slick the tile could be when it was wet. He gripped his cane tighter and stared down at the puddle again. It seemed to be growing. He took a towel off the towel bar and tossed it down. It landed with a plop and was quickly soaked through. "Damn."

He backed out of the bathroom, into the hall. He stood there staring at the floor, then turned and went into the living room, grabbing the phone from the charger. Nothing. He shook his head. Of course not. The cordless wouldn't work without power. There was a standard phone in the bedroom, but he didn't want to wake Stacy yet. She'd be pissed enough as it was.

Wait. He opened her purse and found her cell phone, fully charged. In the kitchen, he found the emergency number for building maintenance on the refrigerator, where Stacy had placed it "just in case" when he first came home. House punched in the numbers and listened to the phone ring as he walked across the living room.

He stopped in front of the door and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder to free up one hand. He had just gotten the door unlocked and started to open it when the phone began to slip away. He grabbed for it with his right hand, but nearly dropped the cane and overcompensated when he shifted his weight onto his left leg. House stumbled slightly, then caught his balance again. He caught the phone with his left hand just as it stopped ringing.

He could just barely make out the voice on the other end of the line. "Pinnacle Management."

House leaned against the wall and held the phone up against his ear with his left hand. "This is Greg House, I'm calling from Hill Street ..."

"Yeah, we've got a couple of reports from there already," the man said. "Do you have any water in your place?"

"Bathroom," House said. He peeked out the door. The hallway was just as dark as the living room.

"OK, listen. We've got someone on the way there already, but it looks like there's a problem with the main line. We'll be shutting everything down. What's a number where we can reach you?"

House gave him Stacy's cell number and hung up.

the bathroom door he could hear the water seeping out even before he pointed the light at the tiles. The water seemed to have reached further than it was the last time he'd been there. He stepped forward and felt the cold water at his toes.

He could almost hear his father's voice, teasing him, pushing him. "What's the matter, scared you're going to fall?"

Yes, House thought. I am.

He rubbed at his thigh and wondered if it was time for a Vicodin.

Once he woke Stacy, she was full of ideas -- none of them useful. She made herself busy planning their escape while House sat on the chair, trying to ease a stubborn cramp out of his leg.

"You can't stay here," she argued, and he knew she was right. He also knew those steps -- all of them.

They looked even worse than he'd remembered as he stood at on the landing: bare concrete, sharp edges, narrow and dim in the emergency lighting. House felt like he was balanced on a ridge, unable to make out the line separating the step he was on with the one just below it. For a moment he remembered the scene in "Vertigo," watching it with Wilson, the changing focal point on the camera distorting the height of every drop. He shook his head, reminded himself he had no fear of heights and stepped down.

For a few steps, House began to believe he could make it. His leg protested, but it obeyed him. He leaned heavily on the railing to his right, the cane in his left hand with Stacy holding him tightly. He'd step down with his right leg first, then brace himself for the split second it took to hold himself up with his arms and what remained of his right leg as he stepped down with the left.

By the sixth step, though, he was cursing his overconfidence. His right leg was trembling and sending shooting pains up past his hip and into his back. He was sweating, and when they reached the landing he stopped to catch his breath and wipe off his hands. Stacy looked up at him with a smile. "I knew you could do it," she said. He just shook his head.

At the next landing he stripped off his sweatshirt and he could feel his arms shaking nearly as bad as his leg.

He tried to concentrate only on the next step and ignore the distance stretching out before him.

He tried counting down the stairs the way he used to count down the laps when he ran on the track.

Nine more steps.

Eight.

Seven. He could feel the trembling in his muscles getting worse.

Six. Too many. He tried to convince himself to take two more steps before he would allow himself to take a break.

When Stacy abandoned him, there were five steps left to the next landing, the next safe zone. He told her he needed just a minute. He wanted to sit, but wasn't certain if his shaking arms and legs would allow him to lower himself without falling.

He tried to call her back, just long enough to help him down, but she was already gone.

House closed his eyes, tried to shut out the sight of the steps left in front of him. It wasn't far. He could remember when he was a kid and he'd jump the last few steps on every flight of stairs, his Mom yelling at him to slow down as he'd hit the ground running. And he could remember how easy it once seemed to bound up these same steps three at a time.

But all that was before. Before the pain and the pills and the PT. When the worst he expected was maybe a bruise or sprain and a few days of Stacy pampering him while he grumbled and iced a sore ankle.

Now ... now here he was, trapped halfway down a short flight of stairs, unable to go back up, afraid to move forward -- and the aches and shakes in his right leg getting worse the longer he stood there.

House strained to hear the sound of Stacy's return and hissed as the damaged nerves sent another shock of pain up and into his spine.

He grabbed tight to the railing and the cane. He looked out at the wall in front of him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked down again at the step directly below him and lifted his right leg. He placed it on the next step down and held his breath as he shifted his weight.

His right thigh shuddered and his knee refused to hold. House fell back onto the stairs. He felt the concrete edge of one step dig into his hip as he slid down it, then another. He let go of his cane and reached over with his left hand to grab at the banister and came to a stop three steps below where he'd started, his right leg folded under him. The left had come to a rest on the landing.

House lay back and felt the cold concrete under his shirt. He let go of the railing and used both hands to straighten his right leg before it could to stiffen up under him.

He allowed his head to fall back onto the step behind him. He clenched his jaw and glared up at the ceiling. "Useless," he murmured. "Useless."

He crossed his arms over his face. His forearms were still trembling. He tried to remember what it was like before, what it felt like when shaking muscles were the sign of a hard workout, a day when he'd managed to push himself further or longer than before. When it felt good. When anything felt good. Now he was nothing but a cripple, trapped in a body that wouldn't obey him and on a flight of stairs that mocked him at every step.

Nothing was normal any more. Nothing was good.

House wasn't sure how long he lay there. He'd left his watch upstairs, but he had felt his heart rate slow. Where the hell was Stacy? He uncovered his face and tried to crane his head back to see if there was any sign of life from the floors above him. They hadn't seen anyone in the stairwell during the long time they spent coming down to this point. He guessed the other residents must have been able to make a quick exit.

But now he heard a sound from somewhere just below him -- the heavy fire door opening, and footsteps on the concrete. House felt a vague sense of relief that someone would find him there, but was even more pissed that he'd be seen like this at all.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and could see the path of a flashlight as it bounced against the wall on the landing. Whoever it was stepped up onto the landing, and the light flashed onto House. He blinked as it rested on his face.

"House?" Wilson's voice came from beyond the end of the flashlight. House let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You OK?"

"Peachy," House said. "You want to get that thing out of my eyes?"

"Sorry." Wilson turned the light away and sat on the stairs near House. "Stacy called me."

House clenched his teeth and lay back again. "She called you. Of course. Why on earth would she want to do something that I actually _needed _ her to do? It's so much easier just to call someone else in to do the heavy lifting."

Wilson didn't say anything. He just sat on the steps across from House. He set the flashlight down between them, the beam pointing steadily at the wall.

"I suppose she already bitched about me slowing her down when she's got better things to do."

"She didn't say very much, actually," Wilson said. "I thought she'd be with you."

"So did I," House said quietly.

They sat quietly again for a few minutes. House could feel the trembling begin to ease, though his right leg was still screaming. He'd taken a Vicodin before they left, and knew he shouldn't take another one yet, but he found himself fingering the bottle in his pocket.

"So how bad is it up there?" Wilson said, finally breaking the silence.

"On a scale of one to five ... wet and cold."

"And to think that people talk about indoor plumbing like it's a good thing."

House knew it had to have taken Wilson at least 15 minutes to get dressed and get here after Stacy called. He wondered again how long he'd been stuck there, and just where she had gone.

"So did you manage to make it this far on your own?"

House shook his head. "The only thing I can manage on my own these days is falling on my ass. Stacy got me this far, then split."

"What do you mean she split?"

"What the word denotes. She vamoosed. Told me to take a break and ran for the hills -- or what passes for hills around here."

"House, I'm sure she didn't just ..." House glared at him. "OK, fine." He looked down at his hands for a moment, then over at House. "So how are you feeling. Tell me the truth."

House took a breath and looked down at his leg, noticed he'd been rubbing it without even thinking about it. "It feels like hell," he admitted. "And my knee's gone stiff."

"Want me to take a look?" Wilson had already moved over. He looked up at House and pushed the leg of his jeans up once House nodded.

House hissed as the material bunched up at his knee and Wilson worked it over the joint. "Sorry," he said. Wilson put his fingers gently on the kneecap and around the edges. "It's a little swollen," he said.

House nodded.

Wilson eased the denim back down and sat to the side again. "Think you're going to be able to make it down the last part?"

"I don't know," House said softly.

"I'll be here," Wilson said. "Let me take the weight. We'll get you out of here and then run you over to the hospital to have Simpson check you over."

"How about we pass on the hospital portion of that plan?"

"House, you know we need to check it." He grinned. "And this way you can interrupt Simpson's beauty sleep on a Sunday. He'll hate that."

"Just like you to find the one bright spot." House sat up.

Wilson positioned himself at House's right side as they faced the next set of stairs, allowing House to avoid putting any weight on his leg. House finally heard Stacy on the steps just as he and Wilson reached the final step. She was weighed down with bags and coats and House wondered just what she had thought he was doing the whole time she was packing.

Wilson insisted on the crutches, and he gave in because he knew Wilson was right. Wilson insisted on taking him to the hospital, and he gave in because he knew he could have done some real damage while Stacy wasted her time upstairs. Wilson insisted that they come stay with him and Julie, and he gave in because he was just too tired and miserable to come up with any alternatives.

Now he was laying in a bed that wasn't his, in a room that wasn't his and in a place that wasn't home.

House looked around at the boxes and bags stacked against the wall. He recognized the dresser from James' old place. There were framed movie posters leaning against the shelves at the far end of the room. He noticed that the water had stopped running. He heard Stacy's steps cross the floor -- from the bathroom, down the hall and out into the great room. He finally heard the door open, then close behind her.

He rolled over and wondered if he could get back to sleep. He could still see the papers lying on the floor where he'd thrown them. Stacy kept pushing them at him, telling him that he should sign them, let Cuddy run her disciplinary hearing so he could put it all behind him and they could all focus on the future. He felt another twinge from his leg and he reached down to massage it.

Move forward? How the hell did she think that was going to happen?

--------------------

WILSON

Wilson stretched his arms up over his head as he tried to work out the knot that had tightened up behind his left shoulder blade. A faint winter sun had broken through the clouds and shone briefly on the files spread across his table in the cafeteria. He could feel the heat on his skin as he reached for his coffee.

He had brought his work to the cafeteria in the lull after the breakfast rush in hopes that the caffeine and a change in scenery would help keep him awake. The cafeteria was also closer to the treatment rooms than his own office, and he wanted to be available quickly if Ray needed him again.

He liked the old man -- but then, he like most of his patients as House always liked to remind him. Ray's wife had been with him that morning when he caught up with them in the ER. Ray was one of those guys who didn't want to complain, and it had been his wife who had insisted he come in when his fever spiked.

Wilson took a sip of his coffee. It was a poor substitute for the cappuccino Julie had brought him earlier. He had stopped off at Ray's room to check in on him once they had started him on the IV antibiotics. When he stepped out, he had been surprised to see Julie standing there waiting for him. She smiled and said the nurses and had told her where to find him.

"I brought you a treat," she said, and held out the Starbucks cup.

"And here I thought my treat was just seeing you again," he said, and she smiled.

Their fingers touched as he took the cup, and she gently caressed the back of his hand before she took her hand away. Suddenly the day seemed brighter, the problems easier. He caught a glimpse through the door of Ray's wife looking at the two of them. She said something to her husband and they both laughed.

"They've been married 53 years," he told Julie, nodding toward the room. "Think we'll look anything like them in 50 years?"

"Only if you expect me to start dying my hair red," she said, and he chuckled.

Julie stayed with him while he filled out new orders at the nurses' station. Wilson took her hand and walked with her to the elevator, then down to the main lobby. "I missed you this morning," Julie said.

"Me too," he said, and squeezed her hand. "Did you see Greg and Stacy this morning?"

Julie shrugged. "Not really."

Wilson sighed. "They were fighting again?"

She nodded. "Sorry you've had to see all this," he said. "I don't know what's going on with them."

Julie paused near the door and buttoned her coat. "They'll probably be happier once they're home."

Wilson shook his head. "I hope so."

"I've got to go, got a session this morning," Julie said and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You going to be able to take a break later?"

"Maybe."

"You work too hard," she said. "You really should take a break."

"I'll try," he promised.

Wilson had finished up the Starbucks hours ago. He looked away from his paperwork and took another sip of his cafeteria coffee. He leaned back and tried to relax as the sunlight washed over him, but sat up quickly when he heard a familiar laugh coming from across the room.

Nelson.

Wilson knew the hearing was set for that afternoon, and knew that House hadn't wanted to sign the paperwork Stacy had prepared for him. He wasn't that concerned. He knew the details that Cuddy already had in hand, the test results -- and the tests Nelson hadn't run. Cuddy had him solid. At best the committee would put him on probation -- a move that could make his life hell. Cuddy was pushing for more though. She wanted him out of her clinic -- and preferably out of her hospital. So did Wilson.

If Nelson was worried he didn't seem to be showing it. He was with a group of residents, apparently telling some complicated joke.

"You think I like seeing him in the hallways knowing what he did to you?" Wilson had said the one time he tried to convince House to contribute to the hearing.

"This isn't about you, Wilson," House said, and stared out the window at the snow.

It didn't make any sense. House had always saved his greatest insults for doctors like Nelson who took comfort in the easy answers, rather than the right ones.

Of course he'd never had many kind words even for those who were good at what they did.

"What the hell did you use, Simpson, a hacksaw?" House had asked the orthopedic surgeon the first time he saw him after the debridement surgery.

Simpson had always been his own biggest fan. He expected House would be impressed by how much of the leg he had been able to save -- or at least appreciate the skills that had allowed him to save the leg at all. Instead House had treated him with the same contempt he'd always had.

"Would it kill him to say thank you? Just once?" Simpson had said to Wilson when Wilson had offered to buy him a beer after one staff meeting. "Everyone else refused to even try. I was the only one who could save both his life and his leg."

Sunday hadn't been any better. House was miserable -- pissed off at Stacy and at himself and now forced back onto the crutches and in pain -- even greater pain than usual. Simpson had been pulled from his warm bed only to be faced with House.

"Why do you keep trying to screw up my good work, House?"

"What, exactly, qualifies this as good?" House had needed Wilson's help to get up on the exam table, and Wilson had waited with him until Simpson arrived. "Is it the scar? Because this one's a winner. Is it the extent of muscle removed? Because turning someone into a cripple must be a great way to pad the CV. Is it ..."

Wilson had let himself out of the room before House got his rant up to full steam. Thinking about it now, though, he realized it was the first time he'd heard House refer to himself as crippled. Since then he'd used it even more, especially when Stacy was around.

Last night had been typical. He began by bitching about the brace Simpson made him wear, then turned it into some stupid commentary about their sex life that sent Stacy away from the table.

Julie joined her in the living room and they sat there chatting while Wilson stayed with House. He changed the topic to the hospital gossip that the dean of medicine was expected to announce his retirement soon. Stacy passed them by without a word a few minutes later when she came into the kitchen to scoop out some ice cream for herself and Julie.

"What," House said to her as she walked back to the living room. "Nothing for the cripple?"

Wilson wondered if House was trying to punish himself or Stacy.

He heard Nelson's laugh again. Wilson grabbed his charts and his coffee. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. When he looked up, Nelson was looking over at him. He wasn't laughing now. Wilson turned away and left.

------------

Wilson could hear the television as he walked into the house. McMurtry had ended up canceling the departmental meeting at the last minute and Wilson found himself with a clear calendar for most of the afternoon.

He made a few excuses, then took off, stopping at the store on his way home. House looked up at him as he walked in, carrying two plastic bags.

"Get me anything good?" House turned sideways against the cushion and turned down the TV volume.

"Chips," Wilson said, and tossed the bag across the room. "And don't leave crumbs all over the couch."

"Wouldn't dream of it," House said. "I think it's a sin to waste decent junk food. It's one of the commandments -- number eight or something"

Wilson tried to remember the proper order. "Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy?"

"Something like that," House said. "I think it's one of the amendments regarding the proper snack food to consume while watching the NFL on the Sabbath."

"They never teach the good stuff in Hebrew school."

"That's why I'm here -- for spiritual guidance."

Wilson finished putting a few things in the refrigerator -- some of Julie's favorite yogurt, some ricotta for the lasagna he planned to make later -- and took out two cans of Coke. He left the rest of the things on the counter and joined House in the living room.

"What the hell are you watching?" Wilson asked, and handed over one of the cans. He plopped down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.

"'Days Of Our Lives,'" House said. "Want to know who's sleeping with who?"

"Pass." Wilson took a handful of chips from the open bag.

"You sure? If you're going to start playing hooky every afternoon, you'll want to know. When it comes to daytime TV, it's either this or 'People's Court,'" House said. "These characters are a little more believable."

Wilson stared at the TV screen. "Should I know her?"

House looked at the TV, then at Wilson. "Ah, so you have seen 'Days' before."

"Don't think so."

"Come on, sure you have. That's Dr. Marlena Evans. You just can't have 'Days of Our Lives' without her."

"Nope. Not familiar." Wilson shook her head. "I'm thinking of something I saw when I was a kid."

House laughed. "Electra Woman and ...

"Dyna Girl," Wilson said, and sighed. "I think she was my first love."

House laughed. "And does Julie know your heart belongs to another?"

"Not unless you plan to tell her."

"Only if the right opportunity comes along."

Wilson laughed and took another handful of chips. House sat quietly. When Wilson looked over at him, House wasn't watching the screen, but instead was staring across the room.

"So was it bad news?" he asked finally.

"What, my patient? No. Nothing major."

"Not that. If you're here now, Nelson must have gotten away with it and you figured that someone better stop me from going postal."

"House, no. I don't know what happened. As far as I know the hearing hasn't even started yet. I just had some free time, and didn't feel like sitting around waiting."

House studied him.

"Really. I don't know what the status is."

"OK." House looked at the TV again.

"I thought you didn't care."

House shrugged. "Just because I want him to be as miserable as me doesn't mean I want to be the one pushing him off the cliff."

"He pushed himself," Wilson said.

House shrugged again.

"It won't always be this bad, you know," Wilson said. "The crutches are temporary."

"And then I trade up for the cane again." House took the bag of chips from Wilson. "So is it your turn to give me a lecture this time? All about how I should appreciate life?"

Wilson shook his head. "No lecture. Just ... wishful thinking, maybe." He slouched into the couch and looked up at the ceiling, then rolled his head to look at House once more. "I guess I'm just an optimist."

"And yet you chose oncology."

Wilson smiled. "A masochistic optimist." He looked back up at the ceiling again. "Must be why I hang around with you so much."

"Yes, because when it comes to doling out pain, I'm the expert," House said. He turned up the volume again. "Just ask Stacy."


	7. February

FEBRUARY

House let out an exaggerated sigh and tapped the end of his cane against Wilson's desk.

"Aren't you finished yet?"

"I told you I need to get this write-up finished and ... " Wilson checked his watch. "And I've got patients due in another ten minutes."

"Live a little. Cancel the appointments. Tell them something came up."

Wilson held his breath and counted to ten before he looked at House. "You know, I've found that most patients actually feel like their doctor is treating them if he actually, you know, sees them and treats them. It generates this whole warm happy feeling they call 'trust.'"

"Then most patients are idiots."

"I'm sure a few of them are," Wilson said. "Like, oh, let's say someone like you, for instance. Someone who's supposed to be in PT, but is sitting here wasting the therapists' time, my time and your time. Just go, get it over with and when you're done, I'll give you a ride home, just like Stacy wanted."

"My leg hurts," House said. "And I'm pretty sure I once heard a doctor type say the best thing for a sore muscle was rest."

Wilson just shook his head. He really wasn't in the mood for House's crap today. He had a tight schedule as it was, then Stacy called -- again -- asking if he could give House a ride home -- again. As if he had nothing better to do then ferry House all over town.

She had begged him to help out, saying she would be stuck at the courthouse taking depositions all day, and Wilson had finally given in. It wouldn't be so bad if it were the first time, or even the fifth. But lately Stacy kept finding excuses to be elsewhere whenever House needed anything. If it wasn't something at the courthouse, it was some personnel report the board needed, or some vital piece of paperwork or even an emergency meeting with the contractors at her mother's place in Somers Point.

And she always called at the last minute, always claiming it was too late to call for a taxi or that House just missed the bus.

House wasn't making it any easier. He was so busy trying to piss off Stacy most days that he didn't seem to notice who else was caught in the crossfire.

Wilson heard the rattle of a pill bottle and glanced up as House shook out a Vicodin. "Want some water?" Wilson rolled his chair back, ready to get House a glass, but House shook his head.

"I've learned a new trick," he said, and swallowed the pill dry, shuddering and grimacing as it went down. "I'd like to see David Copperfield do that," he choked out, and then coughed.

Wilson leaned back and studied House. He had been more open about taking the Vicodin lately -- at least in front of him. He wondered if House was taking more or just felt like he no longer needed to hide it.

If he was taking more -- or if his pain was getting worse -- that might explain why it was he didn't seem to be paying attention to the fact that Stacy had been moving things out of the condo for the past few weeks.

First the large framed mirror near the front door went. Then the books and the framed prints of Paris street scenes. The Tiffany lamp she had found at a flea market disappeared the next weekend, along with the few CDs in the rack that were hers rather than House's. She kept claiming everything was just going to Somers Point temporarily, just to help stage her mother's house so it would sell faster.

"We've got to get the buyers' attention," she kept saying. "The only emotional reaction they'll have to my parents' things is loathing."

House banged his cane against Wilson's desk again and Wilson jerked at the sound, letting the sound of Stacy's claims fade into his memory.

"Come on," House said. "Cancel already and let's go catch a movie. I'll even buy the popcorn."

Wilson picked up his pen and studied the papers on the desk again. "I've got work to do, and so do you. Go to PT."

"Oh, come on. It's not like it's going to matter anyway. I'm married to this cane whether I suffer through their drills or not. Hell, even Stacy doesn't care if I go."

"I'm sure she does," Wilson said. He flipped the chart to the radiology report and looked over the imaging studies comparing the tumor to its size prior to chemo.

"Want to bet on that? I'll give you good odds."

"Pass," Wilson said, then looked up. "OK, wait. First off, I'm sure Stacy does care, but second -- how, exactly, would you propose to even establish the ground rules of this bet? Hire The Amazing Kreskin to read her mind?"

"Kreskin? Geez, all this time with Julie really is turning your brain to mush." House shook his head. "Much easier solution: see if she asks how PT went today."

"That's it? You think whether she asks a question will somehow tell you her innermost feelings?"

"Well no," House said. "Not her innermost ones. Just what's important to her."

Wilson shook his head again. "Well I'm still going to pass. She cares, House, whether she asks or not."

"Says the guy who believes in Kreskin."

Wilson still wanted to believe that House and Stacy could still make it. It was seeing them together -- even after the infarction -- that made him believe relationships were still possible, that made him believe that he and Julie could make it. Now he was wondering if he had just fooled himself into seeing something that was no longer there, and hadn't been for months.

Wilson put down his pen and the file and rolled his chair away from the desk, swiveling to face House. "House, come on. Don't be an idiot," he said.

"What's idiotic about a sure thing like this? Come on, twenty bucks says she doesn't say a thing."

"House, this isn't a game. Stacy's not playing around. She's been moving out, and you know it."

House sat back against the couch cushions. "Stop being so melodramatic, Wilson. She's not moving out. She's just ... moving a few things over to her Mom's place for a few weeks."

Wilson blinked and shook his head. "Right. All of her favorite things. Her favorite books, her favorite music, her favorite art work. You're all about observing the patient and ignoring what they say. Well take a look around when you get home. Stacy's moving out, one piece at a time, and you're just watching it happen.

"There's nothing happening," House pushed himself up from the couch and onto his feet. He walked over to the window and looked out at the gray sky. "And even if there was, what exactly am I supposed to do about it, lock her in her room?"

Wilson shook his head. "How about you start by talking to her. Maybe tell her you love her and ask her to stay."

House pivoted toward Wilson. "What, you get these talking points from one of those marriage counselors you saw sometime before the last two divorces? That worked out really well for you, didn't it."

Wilson fought the urge to say anything for a moment, and instead watched House as he began to pace the few steps between the couch, the desk and the window. He was moving stiffly, leaning a little more on the cane than he had been a few days earlier.

"Save your psychobabble for Julie," House said. "Stacy's not going anywhere. I know her better than you ever will."

"Maybe you do," Wilson said. "Maybe you're right. But you're gambling a hell of a lot more here than I think you realize."

"Gambling is what I do best," House said.

The telephone rang before Wilson could say anything else. He let it ring a second time before he picked it up.

"Dr. Wilson, Mr. Rudolf is here to see you," the department assistant informed him.

"Thanks. I'll be right out." He hung up and looked up at House.

"Time's up," House said. "And I've been enjoying this little heart-to-heart oh so much."

Wilson stood and nodded toward the door. "Come on," he said. "Go to therapy like a good boy, and I'll see about picking you up some ice cream on the way home."

House sighed heavily, and followed Wilson to the door. "Fine. I'll get lost for a couple of hours, but no matter how much you beg, I won't tell you where I've been."

Wilson opened the door and waited while House walked out. "I'll see you after PT," he said. He watched House make his way through the outer office, then nodded to his patient. "Mr. Rudolf, come on in."

-------------

House hadn't lied to Wilson. His leg did hurt -- well, it always hurt, but today it felt worse than normal. The last time he had gone to PT feeling like this the therapist had smiled and said something about how the pain was good.

"It lets you know your muscles are still alive and ready to go to work," she had said. "They're responding to the therapy. Listen to your pain."

House stepped into the elevator and considered the two parallel lines of buttons. He hit one on the bottom and headed toward the cafeteria.

The room was nearly deserted, just a few students and residents shoveling down a late lunch. He filled up a coffee cup and considered one of the last pieces of chocolate cake, but then he'd have to figure out how to carry both the cup and the plate. He could use a tray, but the trays were all back down at the start of the line.

"Anything else?" the cashier asked, and House shook his head.

He put down the cup so he could reach into his pocket for his wallet, and balanced himself carefully while he opened it and pulled out a ten dollar bill. He jammed the wallet and his change back into his pocket, then picked up the coffee again and made his way toward the tables.

He would have liked some sugar, but that would have meant another stop, manipulating the cane, the cup, the sugar packets, the stirrer and the lid. He decided he didn't want it that much.

He really didn't want to hang around the cafeteria either. Too public. But he was tired, and he just wanted to sit for a while. And he was so pissed -- at Stacy for dumping him off on Wilson again, at Wilson for lecturing him about useless crap, at himself for letting it all happen -- that he couldn't think of anyplace better to go.

Someone had tuned the TV in the corner of the room to the ABC soaps and he found a spot at an empty table. The volume was turned low and he had to strain to listen, the words from the TV hospital set and from the room around him blending into one.

"We're switching her over to Vancomycin," one person commented on his way past House's table.

"We've got an MRI set for tomorrow," said another.

"There's an infection," one of the TV doctors said. "We need to bring his fever down."

"He's ordered a lumbar puncture," came from a nearby table.

"I've scheduled surgery," was the TV.

"I just don't know if I love him anymore." House couldn't tell where that comment came from.

He took a sip of his coffee as it went into commercial.

House first saw "General Hospital" when he was in college and each afternoon the entire dorm seemed to crowd into the TV lounge to check in on Port Charles. He was in his first year of med school when Luke and Laura got married and even Elizabeth Taylor made an appearance on the soap.

He'd seen it off and on since then -- usually when he wandered into a patient's room -- occasionally catching the sight of familiar characters mixed in with new faces.

He had started watching it again last summer. This time he was the one stuck in a bed. He was surfing through the channels one afternoon when he saw Genie Francis' face again, still blonde, still short, still Laura.

He started watching "One Life to Live" a few weeks later, almost by accident when he had the TV tuned to Channel Seven, waiting for "GH."

"I don't know how you can watch that stuff," Stacy had said one afternoon soon after he'd returned home. "It's mindless drivel."

He had just shrugged. She didn't understand. Mindless drivel was exactly what he was after. It helped to pass the time, and he could just turn off his brain and float along with the story lines.

When he first got back home, he spent his days either doing rehab or recovering from rehab, mornings and afternoons zoned out on the bed or the couch.

Once he started feeling a little more normal, the empty days seemed almost like a luxury. He wasted away the hours watching movies, playing video games and reading. He devoured books, finishing novels in a day, textbooks in two. He caught up on old journals, marked up the articles that made sense, others that he wanted to check into further.

The novelty soon wore off.

Most days he woke up when Stacy's alarm went off at 6:30, and he lay there listening to her as she'd shower and get dressed, even as she tried so hard to be quiet. He could hear her footsteps as they moved across the floor, hear the door when she opened it to get the paper, hear the spoon clang against the side of the mug as she stirred her coffee, hear the water as she washed out her dishes, then finally the sound of the door as she closed it behind her on her way out an hour or so later.

On a good day, when his leg didn't beg for his attention, he could fall asleep again -- or at least doze off long enough to kill another 30 minutes or so.

Coffee and the paper might take up another 45 minutes. A shower took 15 to 20.

But from there the day stretched ahead of him, with nothing to do but think: think about how his leg felt today, think about what work they'd give him in therapy, about the way he'd screwed up at Hopkins, about how Weber had screwed him over, about how many cases he'd screwed up, about how he'd screwed up his own life by ignoring that voice in his head telling him something else was wrong, about how Stacy had screwed him over, about what he had left.

One day in the fall, he got up early in search of the Vicodin he'd left in the living room. He stood at the window and watched Stacy drive out of the garage and toward the hospital. There were neighbors on their way to the bus, kids pushing new scooters along the sidewalk on their way to school, their backpacks hanging loose from one shoulder.

Everyone was going someplace, and he was going nowhere.

Wilson showed up with some case notes a few days later. Paraneoplastic syndrome, he said, but the team was having a hard time finding the cause. He asked if House had the time to look over it with him.

"Right," House had said. "Nine oncologists on faculty, another six fellows, 12 residents and you bring it to me."

"Fresh eyes," Wilson said and handed him the file. "I was just hoping you could go over them with me. You're good at this."

House spent half of the night reading the reports and case history, barely acknowledging when Wilson left. He called Wilson's office five times the next day asking questions and suggesting further tests until they finally tracked down a soft tissue tumor hiding near the ankle, tough to spot in the mass of bones, nerves and connective tissues.

He slept solidly that night for the first time in weeks.

Wilson brought by another two oncology cases before the month was out. In November he answered the phone one day to hear the voice of his department head on the line, asking if he could bounce some ideas off of House.

"If you're not up to it, just say so," O'Neal said. "It's just that we were talking it over after grand rounds today and the best idea anyone came up with is that if House were here he would have called us all morons and figured it out within 20 minutes."

"As if I'd need 20 minutes," House said, and O'Neal chuckled.

Not long before Christmas Stacy asked if he and the therapists and doctors had discussed when he'd be ready to go back to work.

"What, are the neighbors complaining about the noise when you're gone? I'll make sure the strippers are quiet the next time I have a tea party," he had said.

As if Stacy had any say in what he'd do next, he thought to himself. But the fact was, he wasn't certain if he was ready, or when he would be.

He'd have to deal with patients again, idiots with idiotic questions, intent on wasting his time. The same idiots who had wasted his time since med school. At least the consults he'd done were worthwhile cases, not runny noses and hypochondriacs.

Dealing with them would also mean dealing with their stupid questions and making nice with "loved ones" who he was sure would be more curious about his leg than the diagnosis.

And even if he was ready to face patients, House wasn't completely sure he was ready to do it back at PPTH. Turn a corner and there was the ICU where he'd spent three days, or the nursing station he'd been able to see from his fourth floor room after the second surgery.

Head into the cafeteria and who knows who might see him: the orderly who had pushed his gurney, the med student who started his IV, the nurse who cleaned him up when the first pain meds they'd tried had left him vomiting up everything he'd eaten in the past 36 hours.

Turn around, and there was Cuddy.

Like now. House could hear her footsteps coming up behind him, the pace familiar from the hours he had been trapped in bed, and had learned to recognize the sound of her heels on the linoleum floor. He tried to concentrate on the television and hoped that Cuddy would pass him by.

No luck.

"House," she said. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Cuddy," he said and glanced up at her. "I'm surprised you'd make the mistake of wearing a black bra with that white blouse. In a hurry this morning?"

He smiled when he saw Cuddy glance down at herself quickly before she stopped and shook her head.

"I hear you changed doctors again," she said. "Simpson's telling everyone that you couldn't handle taking advice from anyone but yourself."

"It'd be a whole lot easier if anyone else had any decent advice to give," House said. "Speaking of which, kill anymore of your patients lately?"

"Not since you checked out."

On the television, "One Life" came back on the screen, taking over from the commercial break. House turned away from Cuddy to watch the action.

"I thought you had PT today," Cuddy said.

"Shhh. We're not supposed to discuss patient information in common areas," House said and pointed to a nearby sign reminding the staff about confidentiality.

He shook his head as Cuddy pulled out a chair and sat at his table.

"I guess Stacy told you that Nelson decided to take a job back home in Nebraska," she said.

"Sure. Lets move on from patient confidentiality to personnel issues. Much better topic for the cafeteria," House said. He turned toward a table of interns and med students to his left. "Hey," he shouted. "Want to hear all about how Cuddy single-handedly ruined a guy's career?"

"Fine," Cuddy said and pushed her chair away from the table. "I just thought I'd let you know that when you come back to work, Nelson won't be here."

House shrugged and looked up at the TV again. "If," he said.

"When," Cuddy said and stood up. "I know you, House, and I know your ego won't let you stay away from all these cases for long -- because if you did, that might just mean that someone besides you is capable of solving them."

House turned back toward the TV as she smiled and walked away. He tried to watch a little longer, but overheard his name coming from the interns' table. He glanced over to see them all looking at him.

Forget it. He had the VCR recording the show anyway. He'd catch it once he got home.

He pushed himself up and grabbed his cane and the coffee and headed out the door.

He was thinking about where he could go when the elevator opened. Path of least resistance. He followed two other people into it.

He didn't pay any attention to which buttons had been pushed, just waited to see what would happen next.

Second floor -- two women got out and an orderly walked in pushing an empty wheelchair.

Third floor. The orderly left. Just as the doors started to close House saw a hand reach out to stop them. O'Neal stepped in, reading an open file, walking and reading like he always did.

House stepped back a little further, hoping O'Neal wouldn't notice him. No luck there either.

O'Neal glanced over at him as House's watch made contact with the metal handrail on the side of the elevator. "House," he said. "Good to see you. You're looking better."

House looked up at the numbers, willing the elevator to move faster. One of the nurses on the other side of the elevator was whispering something to the other two.

"Thanks," House said quietly. The elevator was moving too slowly. Now the nurses seemed to be looking his way.

O'Neal didn't seem to notice. Instead he tucked the file under his arm. "Say, do you have a minute to come by my office?" he asked. "I've got something I'd like to discuss with you."

The nurses were murmuring amongst themselves a little louder now, though House couldn't make out what exactly they were saying.

"Sure," House said. Anything that would get him away from the elevator quickly.

"Good." O'Neal smiled and hit the button for the fifth floor. He motioned for House to exit first, then walked with him down the hall and toward the ID department. House glanced up at the hallway clock. It was nearly 3 p.m. With luck most of the staff would be out seeing patients or running labs.

For the first time all day, luck was with him. Dreyfus was in her office, but on the phone. She blinked twice when House passed her door, but didn't have the opportunity to do anything more than give a halfhearted wave.

O'Neal grabbed his familiar stained mug from the desk when they walked into his office. "I was going to get some coffee. You need any more?" He motioned toward House's cup.

"Sure," House said and handed it over. "Two sugars." He settled himself in one of the empty chairs. Most of time he was in here, it was for a lecture about playing nice with the other faculty members or treating the patients with a little more respect.

This time O'Neal handed him the foam cup and then sat back in his own chair.

"It looks like you're getting around fairly well now," he said.

House just shrugged. O'Neal usually liked to start his little talks on neutral ground and House was waiting to see what the real topic would be.

The department head took a long sip of the coffee and leaned back. "You know I'm going to have to start putting some numbers together soon for the next fiscal year. I'm thinking it's time we have a serious talk about just what it's going to take to get you back in here," he said.

-----------

Wilson kept the car idling until House entered the lobby before he pulled away. House knew Wilson had been waiting to make sure he could handle the heavy door, just as he always did. "One lousy time," he mumbled. Just once House had stumbled when a gust of wind hit at the same time he was handling the door. Now Wilson always waited, ready to leap into action like he was some kind of action hero.

The lobby was empty, as it always seemed to be whenever House came and went during the day. Everybody else was at work. The elevator door opened as soon as he hit the button, and he wondered briefly if anyone had used it since he had come down more than three hours earlier.

Upstairs and down the hall. House paused before the door, fished out his keys, then entered. He hung up his coat in the closet and shivered. It felt cold inside the empty rooms and he stopped at the thermostat to bump up the temperature before he walked back to the bedroom.

He hummed a little as he walked down the hall, trying to ignore the sound of his steps down the hallway, the thump of the cane, the soft shuffle of his right foot, the solid impact of his left foot. He pulled a sweatshirt from a drawer and put it on, and considered stretching out for a nap before Stacy got home -- whenever that would be.

He might not have many more opportunities for lazy afternoons if he took O'Neal up on the offer. Half days to start, the department head had said, see how it feels.

No regular caseload for now, and his own personal scut monkey to run errands for him for as long as he needed him. "Within reason," O'Neal had said.

House was sure he could come up with plenty of reasons to keep a med student running his feet off for the next several months.

Of course he could also think of plenty of reasons to turn O'Neal down. Give up the tenure and just consult. They would all have to come to him then, begging him to take their cases.

"And who, exactly, are 'they?'" he asked himself out loud.

A few friends? OK, Wilson then, throwing him a few odd cases out of charity and some misplaced sense of loyalty? A few desperate residents anxious for a sexy case that would win them acclaim? And what was he supposed to do with the rest of his time, go all J.D. Salinger?

Not too long ago, House would have headed out for a run to try and clear his mind, to give himself time to think. Not any more. He tapped his cane against the end of the bed once, twice, three times.

He went back into the living room and turned on the TV.

He rewound the tape and watched the end of "One Life to Live." "General Hospital" was next. It was heavy on the mob story line today, so he only half paid attention to it, instead scribbling away on the back of an old magazine, trying to work out the ideas flashing through his head.

"Tenure," he wrote on the left side. "No schedule" he wrote on the right. "Interesting cases," he wrote on the left. "Idiot patients," went on the right, followed by "idiot doctors." He considered the page. "Wilson," he wrote on the left. He thought about Stacy, and held his pen above the page, but wasn't certain which side her name should go onto.

Stacy. House looked out at the windows. The sun had set and what little light had been in the winter sky was gone. He saw his own reflection looking at him. Would she finally be happy once he went back to work? Would she even care? And why the hell should he care if she was happy? She did whatever she wanted to anyway, no matter what he said or did.

He shook his head and checked his watch as the videotape came to an end and automatically began to rewind itself. It was getting close to 7 o'clock. Stacy should have been home by now if she was planning on coming home at all. Maybe she'd just call again with some excuse about working late, about needing to head over to Somers Point.

House turned off the TV and listened to the familiar sounds of the neighborhood's nightly routine. He could hear a car horn honking and the sound of an idling truck outside. There was a familiar murmur of background noise coming from the condos around him as people made their way home from work.

He wondered if he should start dinner. He wondered when he should go back to work, if he was actually going to do it. He wondered if Stacy would bother to call if she wasn't going to be home for dinner. He wondered if she'd ask about PT.

Screw it. If she didn't care enough to call, then he wasn't about to care whether she'd eaten.

House looked around the room. Stacy's favorite afghan wasn't on her reading chair. He wondered if that had gone to her Mom's place as well. He wondered if Wilson was right. What if Stacy was leaving? Did he even care? Should he? She was the one who screwed up his life, so why was he the one who was supposed to do the begging to make her stay anyway?

He shook his head. Too much wondering. Too much thinking. Too much time.

He stood and headed toward the kitchen, still wondering what to eat. He opened the freezer and saw the bottle of Stoli Stacy had stashed there during the holidays. He grabbed the bottle and a glass from the cupboard.

He was only on his second glass when Stacy finally showed up. He found himself enjoying the slight buzz, the mild disconnect he was getting from his brain. Stacy breezed in, complaining about the cold. House looked up at her and noticed her ears had that bright pink tint to them they picked up when she drank red wine.

"I know, I know, I'm late. Did you get something to eat with James?"

House just shook his head, feeling the slightly muffled sensation from the alcohol in his bloodstream.

He picked up the glass. Stacy took it from him before he could take another drink.

"What are you drinking?" She took a sip herself, then slammed the glass down. "Greg, you know you're supposed to avoid alcohol. Am I going to have to be around you every minute just to keep you from doing something stupid?"

He could feel his stomach churn as he swallowed down his anger. He didn't feel like fighting tonight. He didn't feel like talking at all. He didn't even want to think. That's what the vodka was for.

"Oh, so it's going to be the silent treatment today. Am I supposed to just guess why it is you're pissed at me?"

House pushed himself up from the couch. He took the glass before Stacy could react and downed the rest of the vodka in a single gulp.

"Same reason," he said. "But it's not as if you listen to anything I say anyway." He pushed himself past her and across the room. He sat at the piano and put his hands on the keys. He tried to think of something to play that would quiet his brain. Anything. Something that would take his mind somewhere else, to some other time.

His fingers began moving, picking out the simple scales his mother had forced him to practice again and again on the small piano that had traveled with them from base to base, town to town. He could remember his father bitching if he tried to practice during the news and how he always checked the clock before he started -- at first to make sure it wouldn't interfere with Cronkite and later on to make sure he would.

"I'm not going to let you drown me out, Greg," Stacy said. House glanced up at her, but continued playing.

"You know, forget it," she said. "I'm tired of guessing what you're thinking, so for once why don't you just tell me -- what is it you expect me to do? You want me to wait you out a little longer? You need a little more time to adjust? Fine. I can handle that. But if this is all there's going to be ..."

House didn't need to look up to know she was crying. He slipped from the scales into Monk: all discord and drugged out rhythms.

"If this is all there's going to be," Stacy said again, "then I can't handle it. I don't want to live like this, Greg. I can't. I won't."

House stopped and put a hand on his cane. "But I'm supposed to live like this? Tell me, Stacy, how exactly am I supposed to live like this?" He threw the cane across the room. It landed on the hardwood and slid across the floor until it hit the wall. "You made me what I am, Stacy. You're the one who changed the rules, and now you expect me to just ignore it all? To be who I used to be?"

Stacy wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater. "I can't go back in time and change things, Greg."

"Would you? If you could, would you change anything? Or would you still wait until the time was right for you to do exactly what you wanted?"

"No." Stacy's eyes were still filled with tears, but she looked him in the eye. "I'd still authorize the surgery, because I'd rather have you here, hating me, then lose you forever."

"Well then maybe its about time you figured out how to live with the choice you made," House said. He turned back to the piano. "That's what I have to do."

"So I guess we're still at that same question, Greg, and you always seem to think you're so good with answers, so tell me: How are we supposed to live with this?"

House didn't say anything, just started up the scales again. He heard Stacy walk out of the room and heard a door slam somewhere down the hallway.

He searched his memory again for a piece to play.

Something Russian, maybe.

Something dark.


	8. March

MARCH

It was still dark when House woke. Not even a hint of dawn was visible past the open curtains in the living room. He thought about trying to roll over and go back to sleep, but he could only take so long on the couch, and he could tell from the ache in his back and right hip that he had already hit that barrier.

He dropped his left foot to the floor and braced himself against the cushions before he pushed up. He managed the move in one smooth motion, but hissed as the parasthesia woke in his right leg -- the damaged nerves jangling out a warning, then shooting pains arcing along the length of his leg and up into the small of his back.

He leaned forward and ran his hands along the edge of the scar tissue, as if the damaged nerves were some kind of wild animal he could gentle with a soothing touch.

Once the sharp edges of the pain finally eased, he looked up and into the dim light of the room. He could make out the rough shapes of the furniture by the light coming from the streetlights outside. He finally reached over to the lamp on the table behind him and turned the switch -- then flinched and turned away as the first signs of a headache announced itself somewhere behind his left eye.

He waited for a minute before he slowly eased open his right eye, then his left. There was an empty glass and an empty Jameson's bottle on the coffee table. No difficulties diagnosing the cause of his headache at least. He finally checked his watch and saw it was a little before 6 a.m.

That would mean he got ... House tried to remember what time Wilson left then added in the length of time he'd spent committing himself to finishing off the whiskey... and decided he'd slept close to four hours. Not bad for his recent history.

House stretched and then let out a short yelp as the pain from the damaged muscle joined in with the damaged nerves. He fumbled for the Vicodin bottle on the table and also grabbed the water glass Wilson had left there last night. He rated his pain level and shook out two of the pills.

His leg didn't like spending nights on the couch, but House hadn't been able to bring himself to sleep in the bed. He had promised Wilson he'd try, but it had been no good since Stacy had left.

Had left him there on the sidewalk on a gray Friday afternoon nine days ago in front of their building.

Left him standing alone after he'd just completed his second week back at work.

Left him exhausted and shaking.

Left him saying she wouldn't be coming up with him

Left him saying she wouldn't be back at the end of her day.

Left him saying she wouldn't see him again.

Left him even as begged.

Left him even as he promised things would change.

Left him even as he said _he_ would change.

"Don't lie to me Greg," she said. "And don't lie to yourself. You'll never change."

Wilson talked himself into the condo a few hours later, with promises of beer and Irish whiskey. He poured the Jameson's and sat back in the easy chair. He didn't say anything about the broken glass and smashed picture frames in a pile on the floor. He ignored the long, narrow hole in the drywall near the front door.

"Just because you've got alcohol, don't go expecting me to get all weepy and pour out my troubles," House said.

"I don't expect anything," Wilson said.

"You're going to have to get your vicarious neediness thrills somewhere else."

"Duly noted." Wilson took a sip of the whisky.

Wilson hadn't asked him anything that first night, except what he wanted on his pizza.

"Don't care," House had said, and opened another beer. "Not hungry."

"Well I am, and since you'll only end up mooching off of me, I thought I'd at least get something you wouldn't bitch about."

House didn't remember falling asleep that night, but he woke sometime the next morning to find Wilson slouched in the chair, his feet stretched out onto the coffee table and his head slumped back against the leather seat back.

hadn't left for the next two days. House managed to chase him out Sunday night only by promising he'd get some real sleep in the bed, and only after he'd agreed to ride in to the hospital with Wilson in the morning.

The office and the patients would be a distraction, Wilson claimed. "And it's got to be better than sitting here throwing things at the walls all day."

"Doubt it," House said.

He really did try to sleep on the bed, but the sheets, the blankets, the pillowcases all smelled of Stacy: the faint hint of her shampoo and her soap, Chanel perfume and the moisturizer she always put on just before bed -- all of it creating an aroma afterimage every time he closed his eyes.

House lay there for twenty minutes before he got up. He stripped the bed, struggling to pull the heavy covers out from beneath the mattress, recognizing the down comforter that Stacy had bought two years ago and the sheets she bought at Macy's.

The effort left him breathing deeply, taking in even more of her ghostly scents, flowers and spices -- jasmine, magnolia, cinnamon and some deep Asian flavor he'd never been able to name.

He left the covers where they lay and stumbled toward the spare room, his arm shaking on the handle of his cane. He turned on the overhead light and saw the comforter that Stacy had picked out. He remembered the way she'd taken to sleeping there some nights during the past month or so.

He left the light on and made his way back to the living room, dropping onto the couch. He turned toward the cushions, his back to the room, ashamed by the dampness in his eyes, though no one was there to see.

The blanket was wadded up at the end of the couch when Wilson got there the next morning. House could see him look at it, then look at him, but Wilson didn't say anything. Neither did House.

House managed to put in four hours that morning, going over charts and talking over cases with O'Neal before his leg began to beg for rest. He gave in and called Wilson to ask him to take an early break and give him a ride home.

He fell asleep in the armchair for a couple of hours that afternoon before he finally forced himself back into the bedroom. The comforter was still crumpled up on the floor. Her favorite blanket was hanging from the edge of the bed. The sheets were still partially tucked in under the mattress.

House pulled them the rest of the way out and dragged them all across the floor and into the closet, dumping them in a corner where Stacy used to hang her favorite suits.

He made his way over to the hall linen closet and dug down through the pile of sheets and towels to the simple blue cotton sheets he bought years before he ever met Stacy.

House brought the sheets back to the bedroom and carefully balanced himself before he fit the bottom sheet under one corner of the mattress. He picked up his cane and made his way to the end of the bed and tucked in the second corner. Then around the foot of the bed for the third and finally up to the final corner.

The sheets were old and the mattress was thick. House had to pull on the sheet to make it fit. He tucked the edges of the top sheet under the mattress and found himself thinking that if Wilson were there he'd probably insist on hospital corners.

House made his way back to the living room and grabbed the old blanket and pillow from the couch, tossing both onto the bed before he turned off the light.

It didn't help.

When House lay down that night, Stacy's scents, embedded deep in the mattress, overwhelmed the musty odor of the old sheets. The mattress didn't even feel right. It seemed off balance with only his weight on one side of the bed. He gave up and took the blanket and pillow back to the couch.

He tried again the next night and the next. For the past three nights he hadn't even tried.

Now here he was, still on the couch, willing the Vicodin to kick in a little faster. The pain seemed to get worse with every night he slept there. He didn't know if he'd be able to handle another one.

He leaned back, and placed his arm over his eyes to try and shield them from the light. At least the Vicodin should help with the headache. He'd known when he opened the Jameson's that the whiskey hadn't been the best idea, but it had quieted his mind and helped loosen his joints and muscles enough to let him drift into sleep.

House heard the thump of the Sunday paper as it landed outside the door and could tell by the sound that it was thick and heavy, filled with the usual advertisements for the usual crappy stuff. He thought about walking over to collect it, but decided he didn't care enough just now to get up.

Coffee would probably take the rest of the edge off too, but that also require getting up. Getting up would mean aggravating his leg. And just now, that would be bad. Just now, the headache was helping him to ignore his leg. House moved his arm and let a little more light seep in. He could feel the headache ramp up, but his leg felt a little better.

--------------

Wilson checked his pockets. His wallet was in his back right pocket, his hospital ID badge tucked into his front left pocket in case he needed to stop by, his beeper was clipped to the right side of his belt, his cell phone was in his coat pocket.

He took his keys from the counter and turned to Julie who was perched in front of the breakfast bar, the paper spread out in front of her. "You sure you don't mind?" she looked up at him.

"If I minded, I would have said so the first three times you asked me," she said and flipped a page.

"I know, I know. And I know I've been gone a lot the past week or so, and you've been wonderful about it all."

She smiled and spun her stool towards him. "What do you know," she said. "We found something you and my mother agree about: I'm wonderful."

Wilson laughed and stepped up to her. He took her hands in his. "Unfortunately, she also thinks you're too wonderful for the likes of someone like me."

Julie leaned toward him. "Well, this is one time when her opinion doesn't count," she said, and he kissed her. Wilson closed his eyes and took in the softness of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, the feel of her hair as it fell forward and brushed across the edge of his jaw.

She finally pulled away, but he kept his eyes closed a moment longer, allowing himself to remember the way she smelled in the morning, fresh from the shower.

He finally opened his eyes and studied their intertwined hands, her long, thin fingers joined with his own larger ones. Her skin was smooth and her fingernails perfectly manicured. His skin was rough from the dozens of times he'd scrub them clean each day between patients.

"I wish I could stay with you," he said.

"No you don't," she said, then smiled at his confused expression. "OK, maybe you do a little, but you'd spend the whole day worrying about Greg."

Wilson nodded. He knew she was right. House was getting better. Not great, but at least Wilson no longer expected to walk in the door and find all the furniture smashed into pieces. If House had been stronger, maybe he actually would have torn the place apart. Of course if House were healthy, maybe Stacy would never have left.

Stacy had called him in the middle of the afternoon a week ago on Friday. She was crying and asked him if he'd seen House.

"Not since this morning, why? What's wrong?"

She was silent for a minute or two, then took a deep breath. "I've left, James," she said.

Wilson felt his stomach drop, felt the air turn cold. For a moment it seemed like the light had grown dim.

"What?" he asked. "When?"

"Just now," she said. "I couldn't live like that any more James. You know I've tried."

You should have tried harder, Wilson thought, but he didn't say anything.

"He doesn't want me there any more. I'm only going to make it worse for him in the long run."

"I ... I don't believe that," Wilson said. "I don't ..."

"It's done, James," Stacy interrupted. "It's over. It's been over for a long time, but I couldn't admit it."

Wilson didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything he could say that would change anything.

"I packed up the last of my things this morning while Greg was at work," Stacy said, filling in the silence. "I'll pack up my office this weekend, and I'll be staying at my Mom's place for a while until I decide what to do next."

"You've leaving work too?"

"I told them I'll finish out some things from home, but I had vacation time built up. I couldn't stay there while Greg's there," Stacy said. "That wouldn't be fair to him, seeing me around the halls every day. Besides, I've had other offers the last few years. I've got other opportunities. It's not like Greg has anyplace else to go just now."

House barely said anything that first night. Just knocked back shots and drank beer. He nibbled at a slice of the pizza, but only when Wilson pestered him to eat something.

Wilson stayed with him through the night and all through Saturday. He refused to say anything when Wilson tried to ask about Stacy, so instead Wilson was forced to decipher House's state of mind from the comments House made on whatever showed up on the television screen.

"Should have known that Sprewell would choke," House said while they watched the Knicks.

"It's early spring in the Midwest, and you live in a mobile home," he said as The Weather Channel showed a man walking through the damage from an early morning tornado in Texas. "Welcome to the real world. It sucks."

"But wait, there's more," he said as Ron Popeil demonstrated a food dehydrator.

"Nothing lasts forever," he muttered as some woman in an advertisement showed off her diamond ring.

By Sunday morning, House was worn out. Wilson managed to get him to take a shower and slipped out for a few hours to check on a patient and grab a change of clothes at home.

When he got back to House's place that afternoon, House was surfing through the TV channels again.

"Go home, Wilson," he said.

"I just got here."

"Good, then you don't need to take your coat off."

Wilson put his bag on the floor and walked over to stand at the end of the couch. "I was thinking we could order some Chinese. The Happy Wok doesn't deliver out our way."

"No, but Sunny Garden is right on your way."

"Yes, but I can get Sunny Garden any day. I was hoping for something with a little higher grease quotient today."

"So call for takeout and pick it up on your way home."

"House ..."

"Right. And your name is Wilson. But this is a really boring game, so why don't you go home and find something new to play with Julie." House kept surfing past the channels. He stopped briefly on a hockey game, but then hit the remote again. "I'm sure you two can come up with some much more interesting games."

Wilson didn't take off his coat, but he didn't turn to leave either, just stood there watching House as House watched the channels flicker past.

"Go home, Wilson," House finally turned to look up at him. "You can call off the suicide watch."

"I wasn't..." Wilson began to protest, but decided not to argue the point.

"Go home," House said. "I'd like a little peace and quiet around here for a while."

House turned back to the TV and started switching channels again. Wilson took his hands out of his pockets. He watched House for a few more minutes. "You sure?"

"Wait, maybe the last hundred times I told you to go home, I really didn't mean it," House said. "Wait. Yes I did. Go. Home."

Wilson had been spending nights at home with Julie since then, but leaving early every morning to pick up House for work and spending a few hours each evening at the condo, ordering food in hopes House would eat, badgering him to try and get some real sleep.

But it didn't seem to work. House looked exhausted every morning, and each day he seemed to lean a little heavier on his cane. He had barely seemed capable of making it out his own door on Friday, and Wilson had been tempted to tell him to stay home. But then home didn't seem like it was much of a refuge.

Even though Stacy had moved out most of her things, her presence still seemed to linger through the condo in the dozens of things she had bought: plates and glasses, the coasters on the coffee table were hers. Stacy was even the one who had forced House to buy a new microwave. Wilson wondered what it was like for House, having to adjust to living in this space alone -- though he knew House had been there even before Stacy moved in.

Every time Wilson had gone through a split -- with wives, with girlfriends -- he had been the one to leave. A clean break. Rent a new apartment, head over to IKEA and stock up on cheap furniture.

Wilson had always thought he had the harder routine, starting over from scratch. But now, as he watched House stumble past the debris Stacy left behind, he wondered if it wasn't harder being the one left behind.

"Maybe you should thank Greg when you see him." Julie's voice interrupted his thoughts and Wilson realized he'd been staring at their hands. He looked up and she had her cocked slightly sideways at him, a half-smile on her face.

"Thank him for what?"

The half-smile turned into a full smile. "Getting you out of brunch with my parents and their friends."

"I don't mind spending time with them," Wilson said.

"Well I do. Between all those questions about when I'm going to produce a grandchild for my parents, or the scintillating discussions on tax law ..." Julie gave an exaggerated shudder. "I swear one of these days I'll shock them all and fail to show up for their monthly tradition. You, on the other hand, have a great excuse."

Wilson chuckled. "I guess I should thank Greg."

"Just tell me you'll try and make it later on," Julie said.

"I don't know, Julie." Wilson shook his head. "I may be over there quite a while..."

"I know that," she said. "Just tell me you'll try, so I don't have to lie when they ask me if you'll come by this afternoon."

"All right," he said, and tried to look serious. "I'll try to come by later."

Julie smiled. "Good." She gave him a quick kiss and turned back to the paper. "Have fun."

Wilson's smile faded. "I'll try," he said, and headed out the door.

-------------------

There was a yellow pickup parked in Wilson's usual spot when he pulled up at the front of the building. He found an open space on the street further down the block and pulled in. He stepped out of the car, then reached back in across the front seat and grabbed the bag from House's favorite bagel place. He placed it on the roof of the car, then reached back in for the two coffees he'd nabbed at House's favorite coffee shop.

He kicked the door shut and balanced the coffees in one hand. He hit the lock button on the key fob and pocketed the keys before taking the bagels in his free hand. Wilson had ordered up a mixture of bagels and cream cheeses at the shop in hopes of hitting on some combination that would satisfy House. If his grandmother knew what was in the bag ... chocolate chip, jalapeno, cinnamon crunch ... he just shook his head.

Wilson took the steps up to the front door, and was trying to figure out how to free up a hand to open it when two people walked out -- young guys, maybe in their early 20s, dressed in jeans and light jackets. They held the door open for him and he nodded his thanks. He saw them get into the truck and drive off as he waited for the elevator.

He adjusted his grip on the bag so he could knock on House's door, then waited to see how long it would take House to make it to the door. He had learned to use the response time as a first sign of how House was feeling on any given day.

"You're not getting any more money," House's voice came through the door just before it opened.

"Are you confusing me for your hookers again?"

"Never." House looked surprised for just a moment, then stepped back and made room for Wilson to step inside. "I'd never be that desperate for sympathy sex."

Wilson held up the stacked coffee cups. "Top one is yours," he said "Black. If you want sugar this time you'll have to add it yourself."

He came to a stop as he saw a plastic-wrapped mattress and box springs propped up against the piano. A long, rectangular box was leaning against the wall. "So was that the furniture fairy I saw leaving?"

Wilson put the bag and his own coffee on the coffee table. The paper was spread across its surface. He could see an advertisement for a furniture warehouse on top of one pile. He recognized the name of the place from its lousy cable TV commercials boasting it was open long hours and offered fast delivery for "a small additional fee."

"Capitalism," House said. "It's a wonderful concept. Offer people enough money and they'll do anything. Sure they may say they don't take orders over the phone or deliver on Sunday mornings, but flash a little cash and suddenly they know just who they can send."

Wilson cocked his head sideways and read the label on the box identifying it as the skeleton of a metal bed frame.

"The old mattress was getting lumpy," House said, though Wilson hadn't said anything. "It was time for a change."

"And the frame?"

"The old bed just wasn't my style anymore." House was staring at him and Wilson wondered if he was daring him to ask any more about it, or leave it be.

"And were you planning on setting this up yourself, or were you going to flash a little more cash to get someone to do your bidding for you?" Wilson walked back to the center of the room.

"And why would I need to pay anyone when you're always hanging around looking for something to do?"

Wilson sighed and plopped down on the couch. He grabbed his coffee and reached for the bag. "I'm not doing anything until I eat." He pulled out the cream cheese and a poppy seed bagel. "Get a knife, would you?"

----------------

House waited while Wilson nibbled his way through the bagel. He drummed his fingers and waited some more as Wilson took a small bite, chewed it very carefully, swallowed, then took a sip of coffee. Wilson finally finished the first half, then sat back and picked up the paper.

"Oh for ..." House said. "You eat like my grandmother."

Wilson looked up at him. "I thought your grandmother was dead."

"Yeah, and she'd still finish that faster than you." House picked up the other half of Wilson's bagel and cream cheese and bit into it.

"I was eating that," Wilson protested.

"You were dawdling. There's a difference," House mumbled. He swallowed and took another bite and walked back toward the bedroom. "You've got work to do."

House heard Wilson sigh, then heard his footsteps following him down the hall. House stopped at the foot of the bed. "What, capitalism doesn't extend to getting rid of your old stuff?" Wilson's voice came from the doorway.

"What, and deprive you of the joy of helping the helpless?"

"You're not helpless," Wilson said and walked into the room. "Just hopeless." He kicked at the pile of sheets and blankets that House had pulled off the bed but left in a pile on the floor. "You planning to redecorate around a whole hovel theme?"

"I considered it, but that neanderthal look is very last century." House bent down to pick up the sheets, keeping one hand firmly on the cane.

"Need a hand?" Wilson said. House saw him begin to reach down and he slapped his hand away.

"Hate to break the whole bachelor cripple stereotype, but I am capable to doing laundry," House said. He figured he might as well break in the bed with clean sheets. He put the bedding on the mattress, then shifted his footing slightly and grabbed them all in one clump under his left arm. "You've got bigger issues to deal with," he said, and nodded toward the bed before heading out into the hallway.

House braced himself before opening the bi-fold doors in front of the washer and dryer in the hallway. He put the sheets on the top of the dryer before he opened the washer.

He and Stacy had split most of the chores around the house before the infarction, but he hadn't done much since then. He supposed he'd have to learn how to do more now, or hire someone to do it for him.

House hefted the soap bottle and could tell by the weight it was nearly full. He checked the fabric softener. Plenty in there too. The bottle claimed it had "Mountain Clean Scent." He could hear Wilson shifting furniture in the bedroom as he put the sheets in the washer and adjusted the water settings.

They disagreed with what to do with the old furniture. House told Wilson he should dump it downstairs in the garage until Wilson could make arrangements for some charity or another to pick it up. "After all, there's an empty space," House argued.

"I'm not hauling it all the way down there myself, so either open your wallet and work some more of your capitalism mojo or learn to live with where I put it," Wilson said, and refused to take it any further than the spare room. "I'll get someone to pick it up later," he said.

Wilson insisted the new bed was too low, and wanted to add the risers from the old bed to the new frame.

"It's fine," House said. He sat on the edge of the bed, then pushed himself up, grunting slightly as he used both the cane and a night stand.

"Right," Wilson said. "It's just fine. Let's see you do that three more times."

"Don't need to," House said. "I only get out of bed once a day."

Wilson said he'd stay until the laundry finished running to help House make the bed.

Then he said they should order some Indian food.

Then he called for a rematch on the Playstation.

"Two out of three," he said, as House racked up another touchdown.

"God, but your clingy," House said. He reset the game. "Half of your patients probably die on you just so they can escape the obsessive compulsive caring."

"My patients love me," Wilson said. "And I've got the best survival numbers on staff."

"Fine, so some of them go into remission out of spite."

"I'll take whatever motivation I can get." Wilson cut into a vegetable samosa, the steam rising from it as it cooled on his plate.

"And what's it going to take for me to get rid of you?" House picked up a piece of the samosa. He blew on it to cool it down, then popped it in his mouth.

Wilson glanced over at him. "I'm not going anywhere, House."

"What, never? Julie's going to be pissed when she finds out you're moving in -- or were you planning on just trying to keep this place on the down low?"

"On second thought, maybe I'll leave now."

"What, so soon?"

-------------------

House didn't approach the bed until after midnight. First he told himself that it was because he wanted to finish the movie he was watching. Then he told himself that he wanted to finish reading one more chapter. He ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him he was just afraid -- afraid that if this didn't work, he didn't know what to do beyond drugging himself to the gills with some of Wilson's favorite sedatives.

He turned off the overhead light then pulled back the covers. He lifted his leg up onto the mattress and slid down between the sheets. He adjusted the pillows and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He listened to the first drops of a spring rainstorm hitting the window.

Spring. More rain. Mud. House wondered if the ache in his leg would react differently to a spring rain than it had to fall rain. Or to sleet. Or to snow.

He supposed the trees and shrubs would begin to bud soon, their yellow pollen filling the air. Stacy always loved the changing seasons.

Stacy.

What the hell did she know about anything changing anyway? How could she say he'd never change? It was all he ever did, since he was a kid, his Dad getting another assignment, another base, another country. Everything changed, whether he wanted it to or not. He had no choice.

Leaving home had only been another change, swapping the precision routine of military life for the itinerant life of a doctor: one town for pre-med, another for med school; go somewhere else for internship, then residency; move again for a fellowship -- his career nothing more than a wandering path from one hospital to another.

And Stacy only brought more change, moving in and taking over his life. But she almost made change seem somehow worthwhile, until she took away his only choice.

No.

House rubbed his hands across his face. He wasn't going to go there. Thinking about Stacy would only leave him pacing the floor again. Besides Stacy was the one who had changed the rules, had changed everything.

But Stacy was wrong.

Stacy was always wrong.

He could change.

He'd done it before.

He could do it now.

He'd lived without her once. He could do it again.

House turned off the bedside lamp and rolled onto his left side. He took a deep breath and tried to shut down his brain.

He closed his eyes and tried to drift into the darkness.

He could do this.

He could.


End file.
